Searching for Memories
by Whisper292
Summary: Sorscha awakens on a cart bound for Helgen with no memories other than her name. She is fascinated with the man next to her, Ulfric Stormcloak, and feels a strange connection to him. After the black dragon attacks and saves her life, she embarks on a quest to find out who she is and why her memories were stolen from her. Characters and settings c.2011 Bethesda Softworks, LLC
1. Chapter 1 Steel or Steel

Searching for Memories I

Steel or Steal

_Yol...toor shul!_

_Flames erupted around her, burning her skin, blistering. She cried out in pain and then let loose a cry of her own. "_Strun...Bah Qo!_" A massive bolt of lightning shot down from the heavens, and her opponent shrieked in pain and fury._

She awoke with a start. She was in unfamiliar surroundings, in the back of a cart with three strangers, and her hands were tied. Her head hurt, and reached up to find a large bump in the back. She must have hit her head when she—

When she what?

She didn't remember what she had been doing. In fact, now that she thought about it, she didn't remember anything at all. She opened her eyes to see a soldier sitting across from her. He was around thirty years old, handsome and muscular, with blond hair and blue eyes. "You're awake," he said. "You took quite a bump to the head. I was beginning to wonder if you'd wake at all."

She looked from the soldier to the others, most notably the man driving the cart. He was wearing a uniform, but not the same one as this other man. Was she in the military? Had she gotten caught by the enemy? A look down at her clothes revealed only rags. If she was a soldier, what had happened to her uniform?

The other man opposite her was skinny, dark-haired, and filthy. He was absolutely terrified. He trembled and looked from one of them to the other, then at the road ahead of them. Sitting next to her was a large, imposing Nord with thick, sandy hair and a fur cloak. He was bound and gagged, but he didn't look beaten down. There was a sense of presence about him; he seemed bigger than life. He had a strong nose and intense, hazel eyes. He gazed as her as if he were trying to see into her soul. It should have made her uncomfortable, but she found it actually gave her strength. As they stared at each other, she heard the soldier telling the dark-haired man, whom he called "thief," that this was Ulfric Stormcloak, the true high king of Skyrim.

Ulfric Stormcloak. That sounded familiar. With that, she recognized the soldiers' armor. The one across from her was a Stormcloak, and the one driving was an Imperial.

But who was _she?_

The Stormcloak said his name was Ralof, and the thief said he was from Rorikstead, but she didn't catch his name. She was busy trying to think of her own name as Ralof asked what it was.

"Sorscha..." she said uncertainly. It sounded right.

"And where are you from?"

"I...I don't...remember."

Ulfric sat up straight and looked at her curiously. Ralof raised an eyebrow at her and looked over at Ulfric, who nodded.

"We were ambushed at Darkwater Crossing," Ralof said. "The Imperials took you just as you were coming into town. You tried to fight, and one of them hit you on the head with the butt of his sword. You've been unconscious for more than a day."

"I don't remember any of that."

"What _do_ you remember?"

"My name. _Ulfric's_ name." Realization dawned on her, and he eyes flew open wide. "By the Nine, what if I'm responsible for this? What if I was the spy who told them where you were?"

"Saying, 'By the Nine,' leads me to believe you weren't the spy," Ralof said with a chuckle.

The cart approached the gates of a village.

"Where are we?" said the thief. "Where are they taking us?"

"To Sovngarde," said Ralof. "But that's Helgen. I used to know a girl here."

Ulfric grunted and nodded toward the balcony over the gate, and Ralof looked up. "General Tullius," he said. "He knew you were coming."

The thief started babbling in terror, and Sorscha shared his dread. The memory of her life encompassed about five minutes, and it looked like she wasn't going to live five more. Her heart raced as the cart stopped and an Imperial soldier directed them to get out. Helgen was a small village with two gates, a dozen homes, an inn, and a ramshackle keep, all in a loose ring around a courtyard. In front of the keep stood General Tullius, a handful of Imperial soldiers and bound Stormcloaks, and a hooded executioner, who stood over a chopping block with a large axe at the ready. Two Imperials stood before her party, one a man reading from a piece of parchment and the other a woman in officer's armor. The officer glared at Sorscha. She wondered if the officer knew her. She doubted she'd get the opportunity to ask.

"Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak," the junior officer said. Ulfric stepped past him and walked toward the chopping block.

Ralof stepped forward, and the handsome Nord eyed him. "Ralof," he said in greeting.

"Hadvar."

"Why am I not surprised?"

Ralof said nothing else, just walked past him and went to stand next to Ulfric.

The thief started babbling again and took off running. He got about thirty feet before an Imperial's arrow took him out.

"Anybody else want to run?" the officer said, looking at Sorscha. Sorscha glared her in the eye and didn't move.

"You," Hadvar said to her. "Step forward. Who are you?"

"Sorscha."

"Where are you from?"

"I...don't remember."

"Captain, she's not on the list," Hadvar said to his superior.

"Forget the list," she said, glaring Sorscha in the eye. "She goes to the block." Now Sorscha _knew_ they knew each other. The malice in the captain's voice was unmistakable, and she instantly hated the woman. Oh, to get her hands around that bitch's neck...

Hadvar apologized to Sorscha, saying something about dying in her homeland, but the platitude was lost on her as she stepped past him. Her knees were trembling so violently, she didn't know if she could make it to the block. Maybe an arrow in the back wasn't such a bad idea. She stood next to Ralof, who gave her a reassuring nod. General Tullius berated Ulfric—why did she continue to think of him only by his first name? Maybe they did know each other—for treason, for killing the high king, for crimes unnumbered. Ulfric responded with the grunt that was all he could manage with the gag in his mouth.

The captain had the priest of Arkay pray, but one of the Stormcloaks grew impatient. "I haven't got all morning," he said as he knelt over the block.

Was he out of his mind? Why would he be in a hurry to die?

They headsman obliged the soldier, and swung the axe onto his neck, the blade impacting the block with a harsh thunk. Sorscha flinched at the blow, and at the soldier's head as it dropped into a trough next to the block with surprisingly little blood.

Then the captain looked at her. "You there. You're next."

Sorscha drew a quivering breath and tried to walk, but she found she couldn't move. Ulfric looked over at her with those compelling eyes. He didn't—couldn't—say a word, but his eyes said it all. _Be brave. I'll see you today in Sovngarde_. She doubted it. Sovngarde awaited those who died valiantly, not those who stumbled upon a raiding party and lost their heads by the axe. But the gesture was enough to get her moving. She stumbled toward the block and knelt before it. She squeezed her eyes shut to hold back tears but opened them again as a bone-chilling screech rang through the air. She looked up to see the headsman's axe stopped in midair. Behind him, a monster sat atop the tower. It was black and scaly, with massive wings and teeth as big as she was. It dwarfed the keep as it peered from one of them to the other, its eyes finally settling on Sorscha.

A dragon. Just like all the myths.

"_Yol...toor shul!" _the dragon shouted, and streams of fire erupted from its gaping maw.

The headsman was instantly incinerated.

The flames missed her, but the force of the blast knocked Sorscha off balance, and blisters raised on her arm. Could this be happening? And had the dragon attacked her or saved her? It was just like her dream. What was it that she had said to rain lightning down on the dragon? But the dream was gone, and Ralof was grabbing her shoulder.

"Run!" he said. "This way!"

Sorscha scrambled to her feet and followed Ralof into the tower, where Ulfric waited. His binds and gag were gone, and he was shouting orders to the Stormcloaks. "Sorscha, up the stairs," he said, and she started up into the tower toward a soldier who stood about halfway up, only to be stopped abruptly when the dragon broke through the wall, screeching and howling. Its jaws snapped shut, rending the soldier in two. She screamed and fell backward, but Ralof was there to catch her.

"There's no way up now," he said. "Jump out the window, to the inn over there."

How was she supposed to jump with her hands tied? She didn't think about it; she just did it. It turned out Sorscha was more agile than she would have thought. She made the leap into the second floor of the inn easily and was on the run as soon as she was down. She dashed down the stairs and out the door—and straight into Hadvar.

"Aha, you made it!" he cried. He actually sounded glad. "Follow me."

They worked their way through a maze of burning buildings until they were separated by a colossal, leathery wing slamming to the ground between them. Sorscha jumped back and Hadvar swore, but if the black dragon noticed them, it decided they weren't worth killing at this time, because it took flight again and they began running. As they rushed back across the courtyard, Ralof darted in from the other side. He stepped between Sorscha and Hadvar. "We're leaving," he told Hadvar.

"I'll keep her safe," Hadvar protested.

"You were about to let her die for no reason, you bastard!"

"Fine, go. I hope you both end up at the end of the fire's breath!"

Sorscha was about to say something particularly scathing, but Ralof took her bound hands and pulled her toward the keep's second tower. They found one of his comrades inside, lying dead on the floor, with blood still seeping from a wound in his chest. "You were a brave soldier, my friend," Ralof said sadly. He looked up at Sorscha. "Let me get those bindings off, then take his armor. It will protect you better than what you're wearing."

He untied her, and she took the Stormcloak's armor. Ralof turned away while she stripped out of the rags, but Sorscha caught him subtly turning his head to sneak a peek. She should have been angry, but she found it didn't bother her. What's a little nudity between friends when you've just survived a dragon attack together? She donned the uniform, which was almost too small for her—she was apparently very tall—and picked up a small war axe that the dead soldier had carried.

There were three exits from the room. One led outside to the dragon, and the other two gates were locked. While they were trying to figure out what to do, two Imperial soldiers came up the hallway to one of the gates. One of them was the captain.

Oh, the divines loved Sorscha!

Ralof ducked to one side of the doorway, and Sorscha hid on the other while the soldier unlocked the gate. As soon as the captain came through, Sorscha stepped in front of her. "You!" the captain snarled. She raised her sword to attack, but Sorscha was quicker. She buried the axe in the captain's neck.

Killing was easy, and Sorscha felt no remorse. Wasn't someone's first kill supposed to be traumatic? Maybe it wasn't her first. Or maybe she just really hated that captain.

Ralof finished off the other soldier and took his sword, a bow, and a quiver of arrows. He pointed to the captain and said, "Her armor will protect you better."

"I'd sooner fight naked."

Ralof smiled. "Well, if you feel you must."

In the midst of all the horror, Sorscha found she couldn't help laughing. "Whoa, slow down there, lad. You don't want to get all worked up with all these people and a dragon trying to kill us."

She couldn't tell for sure in the dim light of the keep, but she could have sworn Ralof blushed. "You're right, my lady. My apologies." He led her through the hallways and down a set of stairs, where they came upon a torture chamber. Apparently the torturer hadn't heard the din from above, because he was busy beating a half-naked Stormcloak soldier who was tied to a rack. Ralof rushed in and stabbed the torturer in the back, while Sorscha engaged his assistant. The weight of the axe felt good as she swung it, and she managed to dispatch the assistant before he could get in a good strike with his sword. He died with a whimper; he evidently couldn't take the pain as well as he could dish it out.

"You're a fighter," Ralof remarked as he freed the Stormcloak.

"Maybe. I don't remember, but I don't seem to be having any trouble."

"Come on." He started moving down the hall with Sorscha and the other soldier trailing behind. As they went through a door into a cavernous hall on a lower floor of the keep, they heard the dragon howl, and the ceiling behind them caved in, crushing the soldier. "Damn it!" Ralof cried. "We have to get out of here."

They came upon a doorway with stairs leading down to a cave system. "A secret bolt hole," Sorscha said. "Very handy."

They made their way through the channels to a doorway that was covered with spider webs. Ralof cut through the webs, and they entered a large room occupied by four frostbite spiders. The giant arachnids were bigger than Sorscha, and their legs were at least ten feet long. They had more eyes than she cared to count and spit noxious poison, but they weren't so tough. She had used them for target practice—

Was that a memory?

"I think I'm an archer," said Sorscha.

Ralof removed the quiver and handed her the bow and arrows. "You may get more use out of this than I, then. Did you remember something?"

"Not really a memory, just a...shadow."

"Well, anything is good." He started off again, and before long they ran into a sleeping bear.

Okay, maybe the divines _didn't_ love her.

"Oh, by the Nine!" Ralof cried in exasperation. "What's next?"

"Don't lose your humor, Ralof."

"Easier said than done at this point. Let's try to sneak by it. I'd just as soon—"

"Screw that." Sorscha took aim with the bow and shot the bear in the head.

Ralof laughed. "Looks like you _are_ an archer."

They could see light not far past the bear, and soon they emerged from the cave into the sunshine. "I don't remember the day being so sunny," Ralof mused.

"The weather's not something you notice when you're about to lose your head."

"We can split up now if you'd like, but my sister Gerdur is in Riverwood, just up the road."

"I'll stay with you."

As they set off down the road, Ralof said, "You should join the Stormcloaks. We could use a fighter like you."

"I need to find out who I am first." She stopped in her tracks.

Ralof stopped and looked back at her. "What is it?"

"I don't even know what I look like."

He looked her over. "Dirty-blonde hair, hazel eyes, early twenties, maybe twenty-five. You're actually quite comely."

Sorscha felt heat rise in her cheeks; now it was her turn to blush. "Thank you."

"No, thank _you_."

The stone road wound through the forest, going in and out from beneath the canopy of trees. Sorscha could hear water rushing somewhere off in the distance. About halfway between Helgen and Riverwood, the road came to a switchback that offered a stunning view of Lake Illinalta. Between the road and the lake a platform that accommodating three standing stones. The cone-shaped stones were about six feet high, and each was intricately carved with an image and a pattern of stars. A hole was bored through the stone near the top. "The Guardian Stones," Ralof said.

Sorscha nodded. "There are thirteen of them. After the constellations."

"You know them, then?"

"I guess I do." She stepped onto the platform, which fairly vibrated with magic, sending delicious tingles down her spine. The stones seemed alive and inviting. _Touch me,_ they called. _Receive my blessing._ Sorscha turned in a circle, studying each one. But which one should she touch? The stone on the right was the Warrior Stone, meant to guide the fighter and help improve his or her skills. In the center was the Mage Stone, which did the same thing for the wizard or enchanter. To the left was the Thief Stone, for speech and other, more larcenous, skills. Sorscha felt drawn to the Thief Stone in a way she couldn't explain, and she almost touched it, but she noticed Ralof watching her closely. She didn't know what it was about this soldier, but she found she very much wanted to please him. She turned and laid her hand on the Warrior Stone. The pattern of stars lit up, and the hole sizzled with magic. The tingle intensified, and a warmth spread through Sorscha's body, bringing with it a vigor and a hunger for battle.

"Ha, I knew you were a fighter!" he said.

Riverwood was a cute little village of about thirty people and included a mill, a blacksmith, an inn, and a general store. As they walked through town, most of the residents waved and said hello to Ralof, the only exception being the smith, who glared hatefully.

"What's with him?" Sorscha asked.

"That's Hadvar's brother."

"Hadvar, the Imperial soldier from Helgen?"

"Aye. We were childhood friends, but I suppose that's over now."

"I'm sorry."

"As am I. War tends to tear people apart, no? Perhaps someday the war will end and we can be friends again."

He led her down a path behind the mill, where they met a woman running the saw. She was slim and tan, mid-thirties, and evidently much stronger than she looked, to be running such a heavy piece of equipment. "Gerdur!" Ralof exclaimed. He went to his sister and embraced her.

"Ralof, you shouldn't be here," she said. "It's not safe. I heard Ulfric was captured."

"Gerdur, we need to talk in private."

Gerdur looked over at Sorscha and then back to Ralof. "Of course. Follow me." She called for her husband, then led them to an alcove by the river out of earshot of the rest of the town. "Who is your friend?" she asked Ralof.

"This is Sorscha. She saved my life today."

"We saved _each other's_ lives," Sorscha clarified.

"Yes," Ralof confirmed. "Ulfric was captured. We were all bound for the headsman's block."

"'Bound for'?" Sorscha remarked.

Ralof smiled at her. "The timing couldn't have been better."

Gerdur's husband, Hod, approached. He was stalwart and exuded strength and resolve, even just walking across the yard. He looked Sorscha up and down appreciatively, then turned to Ralof and clasped his forearm. "Brother, good to see you. You two look like you were in a battle."

"You might say that."

"What happened?" Gerdur asked.

"A dragon attacked Helgen."

Gerdur and Hod's jaws dropped. "What?" Gerdur cried. "A real dragon?"

"You know the gold dragon claw Lucan Valerius has in his store? It's nothing compared to the size of a real one."

"By the gods, how did you survive?"

"The dragon actually saved our lives," Sorscha said.

Ralof nodded. "We managed to escape in the confusion. Gerdur, we need a place to hide out for a while."

"Of course. You're both welcome. But if a dragon has attacked, the Jarl needs to be informed."

"I'll go," said Sorscha. "Now that we seem safe, I find I'm not tired."

"You've been through so much today, friend. Are you sure you'll not rest a bit before you go?"

"Can't afford to. What if the dragon comes here next?"

Gerdur walked back up to the mill and retrieved a knapsack. She dug into the bag for some bread, an apple, and a few gold coins, then handed them to Sorscha. "Here, take these, and know you're welcome in our home. I must get back the mill. Be safe."

Sorscha reached out and hugged the woman. "Thank you."

Gerdur smiled and headed back toward the mill, with Hod following. Ralof stood before her.

"Quite a day, huh?" he said.

"Quite a day."

"You'll come back, won't you?"

"Probably."

"I don't know how long I'll stay here. If I miss you, hopefully I'll see you in Windhelm." He reached up and stroked her cheek. "And take care of yourself."

Sorscha reached up and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. "You, too," she said before turning away.

She headed north through town and started across the bridge on the road that would ultimately lead her to Whiterun, the seat of the hold and home of the Jarl. As she reached the other side, however, she realized she still had unfinished business. She couldn't go back through town; Ralof might see her and wonder what she was up to. Thus, Sorscha turned left and doubled back on the other side of the river, staying as hidden as possible. When she was far enough past Riverwood to be comfortable Ralof wouldn't see her, she crossed the river and headed up the road to the Guardian Stones. When she reached them, she stepped up on the platform.

Warrior, Mage, and Thief. She had touched the Warrior Stone because she hadn't wanted to disappoint Ralof, but though she didn't remember much, she knew that her strengths lay elsewhere. She was a fighter, yes, but there was more. Sorscha turned to the left and touched the Thief Stone.

9


	2. Chapter 2 Smile

**Our story skips forward to after Sorscha joins the Companions. She has spent a few weeks doing minor jobs, and now Skjor has given her an important task: go to Dustman's Cairn and retrieve a fragment of Wuuthrad.**

Searching for Memories II

Smile

"You're sad," said Farkas.

They were on their way to Dustman's Cairn, a burial crypt that was rumored to house fragments of Wuuthrad, the axe Ysgramor had wielded when he had discovered Skyrim centuries ago. The Companions had spent years searching for pieces of the broken axe, and they were jubilant when they heard the news that more pieces might be found nearby. This wasn't Sorscha's first mission for the Companions, but it was the first important one. It was a trial, Skjor had said, to see if she was worthy to become a full member.

Farkas was usually pretty quiet. While he spent a lot of time with the other Companions, he didn't really talk much, except to his twin brother Vilkas and, oddly, Sorscha. His voice was so deep, it made the windows rattle, but he didn't seem to think anybody was interested in hearing it. One or two of the others had implied that Farkas was slow. In fact, Aela had described him as "not the brightest soul gem in the box." Sorscha didn't know about that, but if he didn't have conventional intelligence, he was certainly perceptive. Still, she hedged.

"Why do you say I'm sad?" she asked him.

"You don't talk much."

"You don't talk much, either. Are you sad?"

"Nah, I'm not sad. But you are. Maybe kind of scared. I noticed it the day we met on the road, the first time you came into Whiterun."

Sorscha thought about it. What should she tell him? Her first thought was, _tell him nothing. He doesn't need to hear all your problems. _After all, she had been with the Companions for several weeks and hadn't confided to anyone yet. Why start now? But Farkas looked at her so forthrightly, his pale, blue eyes gazing solemnly into hers, that she believed he really was concerned. "I have amnesia," she responded.

"I don't know what that is."

"It means I don't remember anything. I woke up a month ago on a cart bound for Helgen, and I have no memories before that."

"Must be scary."

"You have no idea."

"You don't remember anything at all?"

"I know things. I can read, and I can fight, and I know how to get around. And this is strange: I know what your name means."

"What does it mean?"

"It means 'wolf.'"

He crinkled his brow. "In what language?"

"That, I _don't_ know. Some long-forgotten tongue, I guess. I can't even tell you how I know it."

Farkas chuckled. "Wolf. I like that."

"You've got a new nickname, then. As for me, it seems the only thing I don't remember is my own life."

"Sounds like magic," he said with distaste.

"Perhaps it is. So what's your story?"

"I don't have much of a story. Our father raised us in Jorrvaskr."

"You were born there?"

"No. My brother and I don't know where we were born. Our father rescued us from necromancers when we were little and brought us to Jorrvaskr."

"How little?"

Farkas shrugged. "I don't know. Little. I don't remember much."

"But you don't like magic."

"No," he said tersely.

Dustman's Cairn came into view over the next hill. It was your standard Nordic ruin: a low wall of concentric rings and a set of stairs leading down to a door, which opened into a labyrinth of tunnels that housed myriad dead bodies. And treasure. And draugr. She had been in crypts like these before, and there were always draugr.

_She had been. _

Sorscha growled in frustration as she stood outside the main entrance.

"What is it?" Farkas asked.

"More of the same. I've been in places like this. I _know_ I have! But I can't remember details."

"Well, at least you know what to expect."

Sorscha took the lead as they navigated the ruin. She crouched low, walking silently, and Farkas followed closely, staying as quiet as possible. He managed pretty well despite his heavy, steel armor and the fact that stealth was not his strong suit. The inside of the cairn was just as she had guessed. The corridors were dark, and the long walls were periodically inlaid with inky-black nooks. A torch only made them a target for the draugr, but they couldn't see without it, so Sorscha carried her bow in one hand and the torch in the other, prepared to drop it at the first sign of enemies. The stench of decay, mold, and dust permeated the air. But there was indeed treasure. In the first ten minutes, they found a dozen urns containing gold and a chest with an enchanted bow and a couple of potions. She slung the bow over her shoulder, and Farkas stuffed the potions in his knapsack. Then they found the draugr.

It wasn't the first time in her memory that she had fought the undead, half-rotted creatures. Bleak Falls Barrow, where she had gone to recover the Dragonstone for Farengar, Dragonsreach's court mage, was crawling with them. Surprisingly, she and Farkas came across very few of them. Before long, they found out why.

They emerged from a cramped hallway into a cavernous room that appeared to have once been some sort of ritual chamber. Oddly, the big room was brightly lit; torches burned in all the sconces, making Sorscha wonder if they were truly alone. There were a couple of sarcophagi to the right with two dead draugr lying on the floor next to them. Farkas crinkled his nose at the noxious odor the bodies emitted. An altar stood to the left, laid with potions and embalming tools and lit with two extra torches. In the center of the hall was a large, round dais that had been used for who knew what. A smaller room lay just in front of them, and an exit opened to the right of it, but it was barred by a portcullis.

"What now?" Farkas asked.

"Maybe there's a chain or lever or something." Sorscha started looking around. There were a few more potions in the small room, in addition to a lever. She didn't see anything that appeared to be a secret door, so she pulled the lever in the hope that it would open the other gate. Instead, a portcullis came down over the door to the room she was in, blocking her way out. She pulled the lever again, but nothing happened. "Well, this is inconvenient."

Farkas came to the gate and peered through. "Now look what you've gotten yourself into."

"Thanks. Make me feel like an idiot."

Farkas chuckled. "It could as easily have been me. Sit tight; the other door opened up, so maybe there's a lever in there."

Before he could turn around, four bandits emerged from the hallway that had just opened up. There were three men and a woman, and one of the men was an orc. They were armed, swords at the ready.

"Wolf," Sorscha said, pointing behind him.

Farkas turned around to meet his attackers.

"We knew you would come here, Companion," the woman said. It was evident that they knew Farkas, and he knew them.

Sorscha stood helplessly behind the portcullis as the bandits taunted Farkas. She knew he could fight, but it was four against one. The odds didn't look good. But Farkas did something she could not have expected. With a fearsome growl, he changed. His body began to contort and grow to tremendous size. He howled, not in pain but in fury, as his jaw elongated into a muzzle with wicked-looking fangs and his spine and shoulders seized up to produce a great, hulking form that towered over the bandits. The leather straps on his armor snapped, and the plates popped off, clattering to the floor or crashing into the walls and portcullis. The tunic he wore underneath his armor ripped to shreds, but his breeches held out, groaning at the seams as the muscles and bones in his legs shifted. His feet changed in such a way that he could step out of his boots before they tore up, and he kicked them at the bandits, catching one of them in the privates. Fur sprouted all over his body, thickening to a heavy main about his head and neck, and razor-sharp claws protruded from his fingers and toes. The end result was a monstrous, terrifying creature that made Sorscha's breath catch in her throat.

Farkas was a werewolf!

Sorscha looked on in shock and horror, but the bandits didn't seem surprised. They attacked, but they were no match for the beast that Farkas had become. He snarled and slashed at them, and screams erupted as blood and bodies flew in all directions. He all but tore the orc in half, and he hurled the woman all the way across the room, where she crashed into the altar. Farkas picked one of others up and tore into his throat, then threw him to the floor, gurgling pitifully. The last bandit stood back, bravely pointing his sword at the werewolf, but he couldn't hide the trembling of his hand.

"I'll be avenged," he cried, valiant to the end.

Farkas roared in response and tackled the bandit, who screamed in agony in the second or two that he lived before the werewolf ripped his head off. He threw the head and looked down at his abdomen, where the sword had penetrated. He growled, yanked the blade out, and tossed it the way of the head. Then he turned to Sorscha.

Her heart hammered, and she gasped in terror. She knew nothing about werewolves. Did the rage completely overtake him? Was he in control? Did he even know who he was? And what was he going to do to her?

Again, his actions were the last thing she expected. He held up a finger, indicating she should wait, and then he went through the other door and pulled the lever. The gate opened, but Sorscha didn't budge. He came back in human form, still covered in blood. He dug around in his pack, pulled out a rag, and wiped much of the blood from his face, chest, and hands. Then he reached in and retrieved a shirt. "I carry an extra because you never know what's gonna happen," he said, "and that armor hurts without anything under it."

He looked up and realized Sorscha hadn't moved. He stood up and took a step toward her, but she retreated. "I'm sorry if I scared you," he said, "but there wasn't time to warn you. I guess you can see why I thought it was funny that you called me 'Wolf.'"

"Farkas, I don't—I'm—Ysmir's beard!"

"I wouldn't hurt you. You know that, right?"

"Not so sure, really."

He sighed sadly. "Aye, I guess I can't really blame you for that. But I wouldn't. I promise."

Sorscha finally gathered enough courage to step out into the main room, and she helped Farkas put his armor—which had been constructed with extra straps—back on. As they continued through the tunnels, Farkas explained that the people who had attacked were a particular group of bandits called the Silver Hand. They were noted werewolf hunters and had been enemies of the Companions for years.

"Is it common knowledge that you're werewolves?" Sorscha asked.

"No. We don't know how they know; they just do."

They found two more Silver Hand farther into the dungeon. When they came upon the them, Sorscha half-expected Farkas to change again, but he refrained and used his sword instead. Their deaths, however, were no less bloody than the first had been. Sorscha didn't even have a chance to draw her bow before Farkas charged in and hacked them to pieces. He turned to her with eyes blazing. "I really don't like the Silver Hand," he muttered.

Sorscha couldn't decide whether to feel safer or more afraid.

After a while they came upon a couple of frostbite spiders. They both reared at them, stretching their front legs and spitting venom at them. One missed, but the other spattered all over Sorscha. The venom, some of which got in her mouth, was bitter and was as cold as a northern wind. Sorscha sputtered and gagged, nearly overtaken by nausea, but she choked the bile down and aimed at the nearest one.

Farkas froze and took a quivering breath, and Sorscha could sense his terror. His paralysis only lasted for the briefest of moments, however, and he rushed the second spider, burying his blade in its head. The creature convulsed and collapsed, its legs splaying out. Farkas cringed.

"Move on?" Sorscha asked.

"Please!"

Shortly after they killed the spiders, they found another one of those word walls. It stood at the back of a chamber guarded by a powerful draugr that took both Sorscha and Farkas to kill. While Farkas looted its body, Sorscha approached the word wall. It looked just like the one she had encountered in Bleak Falls Barrow, a curved stone structure carved with glyphs from one end to the other. As she stood and watched, most of the wall turned black, but one set of glyphs glowed bright white. Then the wall spoke to her. _"Yol!"_

She knew that word. She had dreamt it.

"What in Oblivion was that?" Farkas asked in bewilderment.

"There was one in Bleak Falls Barrow, too. They talk to me."

"I heard it, too. But what does it mean?"

"When I killed the dragon outside Whiterun, a guard told me it was a Shout in dragon language. She turned away from him and Shouted. _"Yol!" _Nothing happened, and Sorscha shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I have to kill a dragon for it to work."

They finally found the fragment of Wuuthrad. It was arranged on an altar at the end of a hall lined with sarcophagi. Sorscha knew what was coming. So did Farkas.

"Do you think they'll all come out at the same time?" he asked.

"Let's hope not."

As soon as Sorscha picked up the fragments, the sarcophagi started bursting open, each with a fetid gust of air and dust, and the draugr set upon them. Sorscha climbed up on the altar and sniped those at a distance while Farkas slashed at the creatures coming up the steps. They didn't all come out together, but they might as well have. Ten, fifteen, maybe twenty crowded around them, and Sorscha and Farkas cut them down as well as they could in so cramped a space. Sorscha noticed blood pooling on the floor; Farkas was injured. But he didn't slow down and never missed a swing. His fortitude amazed Sorscha.

Though the numbers were staggering, they were still just draugr. They weren't all that difficult to kill, and they finally managed to destroy all of them. Farkas wasn't hurt as badly as she had thought—just a hefty gash in his shoulder—but the wound still needed tending. Sorscha was no mage, but she did know a healing spell. Still, she didn't think it was a good idea to use magic on him. He had made it fairly clear how he felt about magic. Fortunately, she had some healing supplies in her pack. She took a bit of wheat and a piece of blisterwort and chewed them up to make a poultice. The blisterwort tasted nasty, but it did a good job, so she would brave the vinegary flavor.

Farkas drew in a sharp breath as Sorscha pressed the paste into the wound..

"All right?" she asked him.

"All right. You?"

"All right."

"Then let's get out of here and get some fresh air."

They looted a chest that stood behind the altar and the draugr's bodies, from which they retrieved more than one hundred gold.

"Where do they get all the gold?" Farkas mused.

"And what do they expect to do with it? It's not like they can get out and spend it."

"You're beautiful," he said impulsively.

She stared at him a moment, taken aback by his candor, and then she found herself saying, "So are you."

Things were awkward now, and they finished looting the treasure and winding their way back through the ruin without another word. When they were outside, Sorscha sat down and went through the gold they had found in the crypt and handed Farkas half. "I'll give you the rest after I sell the pieces we found."

"Why?"

Sorscha shrugged. "Because that's the way it's done. You pick up loot, you split it evenly."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks."

As they walked back to Whiterun, they discussed the adventure. "That last hall was unbelievable," Sorscha said.

"I know! I've never seen so many draugr in one place. Good thinking, getting up on the altar."

"So did I pass the test?"

Farkas laughed. "Do you really need to ask? And here I was worried about you getting hurt when we first went in." They walked in silence for a while, and then Farkas said, "I'm sorry about what I said."

"Oh, no," she protested. "Don't apologize for that."

"I don't want you to be sad."

"Me, neither."

"I'm gonna help you find out who you are."

Sorscha stopped and regarded him earnestly. "Wolf, thank you."

"It's selfish, really. I just want to see you smile."

She realized it had been a long time since she had felt like smiling, but she did now. She gave him what he wanted; a broad, genuine smile.

Find other _Searching for Memories_ chapters here:  gallery/37337366

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC

5


	3. Chapter 3 Werewolf

Searching for Memories III

Werewolf

"You want me to become a werewolf?" Sorscha asked Skjor incredulously as he peered at her over the ceremonial font that contained Aela's blood. Aela stood nearby in beast form, panting. The Huntress's form wasn't as big as Farkas's, but she was still frightening. Her claws were as long as Sorscha's fingers, and her eyes reflected the torchlight eerily.

"It's your choice, of course," the bald, one-eyed warrior said. "If you're to join the Circle, you must have the Beast Blood. It is a great honor, Sorscha."

Sorscha considered it. Did she want to become a werewolf? Did she want to change into a creature like Aela? She knew now that they kept their minds when in beast form, and they retained much of their control. Aela stood there staring at her, her muscles coiled and tense, as if she were ready to spring, but her eyes showed intelligence, awareness. She was a creature, yes, but she was still Aela as well.

But Sorscha still wasn't even sure she belonged here. She felt at home in Jorrvaskr, welcomed by all—well, _most_—but she had obligations as Dragonborn, and Riften called. After a lot of reflection, looting bodies, succumbing to the temptation to pick pockets—which she was very good at—and the comprehension that she was more comfortable melting into the shadows than boldly charging into a battle, Sorscha had come to the understanding that yes, she was a thief at heart. She needed to find out if her real home was in Whiterun with the Companions or in Riften with the Thieves' Guild. She had even discussed it with Farkas, whom she was beginning to feel she could tell anything. With his simple words but surprisingly astute wisdom, he told her she needed to do what made her happy. But what if she was happy doing both? Could she be a mercenary _and_ a thief? And a werewolf on top of that? And Dragonborn, and Thane of Whiterun, and...

Sorscha had to admit that after she had gotten used to the fact that Farkas was a werewolf, she had been more than a little interested. She had asked him a dozen questions about the transformation, his thoughts and feelings while in beast form, and his reasons for making the transformation. Farkas was torn; Kodlak wanted to be cured, and Vilkas was unsure where his feelings lay on the subject. He had vowed not to change until he knew what he wanted. He had even protested initiating Sorscha into the Circle, although Sorscha didn't know if that had anything to do with her becoming a werewolf or not. She and Vilkas didn't get along. Farkas understood how his brother and Kodlak felt, but he liked the freedom of his beast form. If Vilkas was cured, Farkas would probably accept the cure, too, but he would be just as happy staying a werewolf.

Kodlak was searching for a cure. There was always the chance that if she didn't like it, she could get out of it. Then again, maybe there _was_ no cure and Sorscha would be stuck that way for life, not to mention being taken to Hircine's hunting grounds after her death, never to see Sovngarde. But she couldn't live her life in fear. As Farkas had said, she had to do what made her happy. _Yes_, she thought. _I want to do this_. She stepped up to the fountain, scooped some blood in her hands, and drank.

She didn't feel anything at first, but after a couple of minutes a dreamy fog filled her mind and her muscles and joints started to ache. The ache grew into debilitating pain.

* * *

The pain only lasts a few seconds, and now she is different. She can see better, hear better, smell better. She can hear Adrianne and War-Bear in bed half a mile away. She smells Heimskr. He needs a bath. And she smells a dozen animals on the tundra, waiting for her to tear into them.

She begins to run back and forth through the yard. Skjor calls to her, directing her to the wall. Aela is waiting for her there. She runs to her shield-sister and leaps over the wall. It is a long fall, but she is stronger now, sturdier, and the fall doesn't hurt. Farkas is waiting for them out on the tundra. He approaches her, sniffs her, licks her behind the ears. He wants her; she can smell his desire. But they have a mission, and he knows it.

Farkas and Aela begin to run, and Sorscha trails behind them. Now she understands what Farkas meant about freedom. She feels vibrant, passionate, wild. The wind blows through her fur as she races across the tundra. They pass a couple of deer, and the taste for blood overtakes her. She veers off, darting toward one of the deer. It is fast, but so is she. She catches up with it and springs for it. Her claws dig into its hind quarters, and it shrieks and tumbles to the ground. She skids to a stop and tears into it.

She feeds.

The hunt, the kill, the taste of meat and blood is pure rapture.

Farkas and Aela come back to her. When she finishes feeding, Farkas licks the blood from her face. With the contact, his scent, and the intent implied in the act, this is the most intimate moment of her life, and an almost uncontrollable yearning flares within her. She tackles him and leaps on top of him, but Aela pushes her off roughly. They still have a mission, and now is not the time.

Farkas growls at The Huntress, not as a threat but more a grumble.

They take off again, heading east. After they cross the White River, Farkas separates from them and heads into the woods to hunt. This mission is for Sorscha and Aela alone. As they travel through the woods around the base of the Throat of the World, Aela has to chase Sorscha down several times. The call of the hunt is seductive, and she has trouble controlling her impulses. Once, when she can't regain control, Aela bites her hard and anger flares. She attacks The Huntress, who overpowers her easily, throwing her to the ground and pinning her shoulders. Sorscha struggles against her shield-sister, growling and snapping, but Aela patiently holds her down until she finally calms. Now that Aela has regained her attention, they move on.

Sometime before morning, Sorscha's energy drops off. She is suddenly exhausted. She goes as far as she can before collapsing. Aela kneels next to her, but Sorscha can no longer stay awake. Her eyes roll back in her head, and she falls into a deep but fitful sleep.

* * *

When Sorscha awoke, she was naked. Her armor lay on the ground nearby. It was nighttime, but the landscape was as bright as day. Skjor's scent was strong around Aela, as well as the smell of rabbit. Either they had hunted together or Skjor had brought food to her. Sorscha could smell others nearby, both human and werewolf, as well as moss, mold, and old stone. Who knew stone had a scent? She could also hear the movement of many feet. A fort or castle was nearby.

"Skjor brought it with him," Aela said, nodding to Sorscha's armor.

"Where is he?"

"Close by. We'll join him in a few minutes."

"So that's it? It's over?"

"For now. It's for you to decide what to do with it from here. Vilkas and Kodlak would have you hide what you are, but you've gotten a taste. You know what it's like. Why would you want to suppress such a gift?"

Sorscha remembered the wind in her hair, the sounds, the taste of blood, the scents—especially Farkas's scent, the memory of which lingered like a dream after waking. Even now she felt more attuned to the world around her, as though she had only been watching before and was now a part of it. She couldn't imagine giving it up. "Where are we?" she asked Aela.

"We're just outside Gallows Rock. A band of Silver Hand is holed up here, and we're going to slaughter them. Skjor has already gone inside."

"Alone?"

Aela rolled her eyes. "He's stubborn. Get dressed, and we'll move out."

Gallows Rock wasn't a rock at all; it was a rundown fort, practically collapsing in the snow. Aela drew a dagger, and Sorscha, who had recently learned a new skill and could now wield dual weapons, drew twin Skyforge swords. The Huntress was as stealthy as Sorscha, and she didn't make a sound as they stole through the fort. They came across half a dozen Silver Hand, and they destroyed every one. Evidence of their atrocities was everywhere, making killing them easy. Werewolf heads were mounted on poles, and one poor soul hung by her wrist in a closet, her throat slashed and a pool of blood congealing at her feet. They passed a jail where four dead werewolves occupied the cells. The Silver Hand had been busy. Rage welled up inside Sorscha, a burning desire to massacre them and mount _their_ heads on poles.

"And they call _us_ monsters," Aela muttered.

As they moved deeper into the bowels of the fort, Aela told Sorscha about the leader of this particular band. "Her name is Krev; they call her the Skinner."

"They can call her what they like," Sorscha told her shield-sister. "She won't skin another."

They found Krev the Skinner in a large room on the bottom level of the fort along with four others. Sorscha silently drew her bow and took one of the bandits out with an arrow before he even knew she and Aela were in the room, but the others caused problems. She dropped the bow and drew her swords as she engaged the Skinner, a stocky Nord woman wearing steel plate armor and wielding a greatsword, while Aela fought the other two. The Skinner sliced a deep gash in Sorscha's unprotected arm, and she done much deeper she might have taken Sorscha's arm off altogether. She cried out and dropped one of her weapons, but the throbbing pain only spurred her anger. She managed to block another swing and make one of her own, and the blade slid off the armor and caught the Skinner in the throat. The woman howled in agony but didn't drop. Sorscha reset for another attack, only to receive another blow to her arm. This one went all the way to the bone, and Sorscha screamed. She swooned and a haze filled her vision, but she shook her head to clear it. No. She refused to die at the hands of this butcher on her first day as a werewolf.

"Damn you!" she snarled, feeling the Beast Blood swell within her. This bitch was going to make her angry enough to transform, and Sorscha didn't know how to fight an armed human in beast form, especially with an injury. She had to kill her. Now. She took a swing, aiming for the throat again, and though she missed her mark, she did catch the side of the Skinner's uncovered head, crushing her skull with the heavy blade and cutting into her brain. The Skinner slumped to the floor.

Sorscha dropped to her knees, panting. She dropped her sword and grasped her wounded arm, trying to staunch the bleeding. She looked around for Aela and found her on a platform, kneeling over Skjor's dead body. The scent of her grief permeated the room. Sorscha rushed to her side.

"The bastard," Aela murmured. "I told him not to come in alone. He never listens."

"Aela..."

Aela stood up and regarded Sorscha grimly. "You're hurt."

"I have a healing spell. I'll take care of it in a minute."

"Sister, we can't let this go unpunished."

"Agreed. What's our next move?"

"There's a hideout southeast of here, just past Riften. Go. I'm going to stay here and see if I can find anything useful; then I'll find a way to get Skjor back home. I'll meet you at Jorrvaskr."

Sorscha nodded. "It will be done." She sat in a nearby chair and readied the healing spell. In a moment, a golden glow filled her hand and she held it over the gash, relishing the warm tingle as the magic knit the tissue back together. The spell was weak, and she couldn't heal herself completely, but she did a good enough job to stop the bleeding and ease the pain so she could continue on. When she was finished, she retrieved her swords and went back to Aela, who stood over Skjor's body, gazing down at it with a look of despair.

"Be safe, shield-sister," Aela said sadly.

Sorscha hugged Aela, and uncertainty seeped into The Huntress's scent. She hesitated before finally hugging her back. Sorscha figured her shield-sister wasn't used to such open displays of affection, but the woman needed a hug. She left Aela alone in the room with Skjor, and as she walked back down the hall, she heard Aela sobbing wretchedly. She thought about going back to comfort her, but Aela wouldn't want that. She needed to grieve alone. Sorscha exited the fort and headed for Riften.

* * *

She arrived in the city after midnight and decided to spend the night at the inn and then stock up on supplies the next morning. As she entered the Bee and Barb, she looked around at the patrons. The pub was crowded, but nobody seemed really dangerous. There was still no way she would let her guard down. Riften was home to the Thieves' Guild, and though she was considering joining them, Sorscha wasn't stupid enough to make herself a target. A few of the patrons could benefit from that type of advice as well. One man sat at a table near a wide aisle with his coin purse barely tied onto his belt. Two other men gambled with a set of dice, leaving their gold piled up on the edge of the table. A woman nearby bragged to another about an expensive necklace her husband had just bought for her. No wonder the Thieves' Guild loved Riften. These people were careless to the point of idiocy!

As she made her way toward the bar to rent a room, a man stepped in front of her, arms folded, eying her boldly. He was gorgeous. He was a Nord in his mid-forties, tall with long, fiery-red hair, and he wore expensive clothing. His cheeks were tan, as though he spent a lot of time outside.

"Never done a hard day's work in your life, have you, lass?" he said without preamble. His accent was funny, as if he had lived elsewhere for a time.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're a thief."

"Do you always approach strangers and accuse them of being criminals?"

"It's not an accusation, and it's not a judgment. But I'm right, no?"

"What makes you think I'm a thief?"

"The way you move, the way you studied the room when you walked in."

"Maybe I was checking for threats and exits."

"No, you were casing the place. How would you like some work?"

"What did you have in mind?"

He moved closer to her and lowered his voice. His scent was delicious. "I have an associate who wants to put a certain merchant out of business. Meet me in the marketplace tomorrow, and we'll make a plan."

"You can't be serious! What makes you think I would even consider such a thing?"

"Because I know a thief when I see one, and I can tell you're intrigued. In case you were wondering, you'll be well paid."

"Sounds to me like you're in need of a patsy."

The man chuckled, his eyes lighting up when he smiled. Gods, he was beautiful! "If you're good at what you do, you won't be a patsy, now, will you? If you're not, well..."

"I can't meet you tomorrow. I have somewhere to be, and it's important."

The red-haired man shrugged. "Ah, well. Do what you have to do. If you change your mind, I have a stall and will be there all day." He turned and walked away, and Sorscha watched him go. He was right; she was definitely intrigued, not only by the offer but by his audacity. What kind of man would walk up to a perfect stranger in a tavern and make such an offer? She just had to find out.

She went to the bar and rented a room from a gruff-voiced Argonian woman, then went to get some rest. There was no rest, though. The Beast Blood called to her, begged her to allow it to emerge. Sorscha finally gave up; locked her belongings in a chest, hoping that if there were thieves about, they would have mercy on her; and left the Bee and Barb.

Masser and Secunda were full, and the two giant orbs loomed over Riften, calling to her to join them out in the night. She went through Riften's gates and hiked into the woods. After going about a mile, she stopped and undressed, then stashed her armor behind a large boulder. Then she realized: she had no idea how to change to her beast form!

Sorscha decided to try the simplest solution first. She would just will it. She would concentrate, urging her beast to manifest. She closed her eyes and took in the scents and sounds around her. A fox to the east. Two deer to the south. Riften's guards to the northwest. _Two deer to the south_. The smell of the deer's blood drove her into action, and she sprinted toward the animals. After going no more than a few yards, her body began to ache.

* * *

The transformation is quicker this time, less painful, and she howls with elation. She chases one of the deer and takes it down easily. It screams as she rips into its throat with her long, sharp teeth. She feeds. The blood is rich, coppery, and the meat is succulent. She eats her fill, and with power and vitality coursing through her body, she begins to run. Though her feet never leave the ground, she _flies_ through the forest, leaves crunching beneath her feet, small animals fleeing in terror at her approach, and the sough of the wind through the branches above accompanying her. She reaches a river and dives in, luxuriating in the cool water as it flows through her fur and over her skin. As she emerges from the river and shakes the excess water out of her fur, she bays in utter joy.

The Silver Hand can wait ′til tomorrow. The Thieves' Guild can wait, too. And the dragons, and Whiterun. Tonight, this is what she is. It's what she wants to be. It's all she wants to be. She is a werewolf, and for this moment, nothing else matters.

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC

5


	4. Chapter 4 Witch Heads and Hotheads

**Skipping forward again. Sorscha has been to Glenmoril Coven, killed the witches, and retrieved their heads. She comes home to tragedy at Jorrvaskr.**

Searching for Memories 4

Witch Heads and Hotheads

The hagravens hadn't stood a chance. Sorscha had barged into the cave of the Glenmoril witches and slaughtered every single one of them in mere minutes. Kodlak probably wouldn't like the way she did it; she had changed to beast form and clawed her way through the cave, a rather poetic end to the chain of events they had started so long ago. Sorscha didn't know how hagravens aged, so she couldn't be certain if these were the witches responsible for cursing the Companions with the Beast Blood or if they were just descendants, but it didn't matter. What did matter was that she now had the means to cure Kodlak: twenty pounds of witch head weighing down her pack.

She also had some other items she needed to unload before making her way to Jorrvaskr. Not only had she looted the chests at Glenmoril, she had killed a dragon on her way back and kept a bone and a scale, as she did with every dragon she killed. That was _another_ twenty-five pounds she needed to drop off. As soon as she entered the gates of Whiterun, Sorscha turned toward Warmaiden's blacksmith shop. Adrianne Avenicci was at the forge, working on a blade, and Sorscha waved at her before going to the door of the shop (Adrianne's husband Ulfberth War-Bear gave her better prices; being pretty had its advantages). The shop was locked, a strange occurrence for the middle of the day. She went around to the forge.

"Where's War-Bear?" she asked.

"Big happenings at Jorrvaskr," said Adrianne. "You might want to get over there."

"What is it?"

The attractive Imperial placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You should go," she said gravely.

A knot formed in the pit of Sorscha's stomach, and a terrible chill washed over her. The meaning in Adrianne's gesture and simple words was clear: something horrible had happened. Sorscha took off running, the weight of the witch heads and her treasure barely noticeable as she darted through the Plains District and up the stairs to the Wind District. The first thing she saw upon reaching the second level of Whiterun was her shield-brother Torvar standing on the lawn over a dead body. As she came around the corner, she noticed Aela was standing there as well. Half the town milled around the bottom of the steps leading up to Jorrvaskr.

"The Silver Hand," said Torvar when she approached.

"Oh, gods," Sorscha said as she scrambled up the steps and threw open the door to the mead hall. She collided with Vilkas as she entered the building. He blocked her way so that she could barely get through the door.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"I was doing something for Kodlak."

"Well, I hope it was important, because it means you weren't here to defend him."

Sorscha pushed past Vilkas, and then she saw him. Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions, lay on the steps that led down into the dining hall, stripped to his loincloth and very dead.

Why was he nearly naked? Was it because of her? Sorscha had an unsavory habit of stripping the armor from her fallen enemies if time permitted, essentially to add insult to injury, and she had rendered a few Silver Hand naked in her raids. Had they done it to Kodlak in retaliation? But his heavy wolf armor wouldn't have been easy to remove. If they had the time to do so, where was everybody else? She was afraid to ask.

Farkas sat next to Kodlak, as did Njada, who was crying. Sorscha berated herself for the involuntary thought, _well, what do you know? She _does_ have feelings_. Njada had been nothing but a raging bitch since Sorscha had joined the Companions. They had engaged in a couple of fistfights, in both of which Sorscha had wiped the floor with the snide young Nord, but that hadn't stopped Njada's smart mouth. Even in such tragic circumstances as these, Sorscha couldn't think of a single kind word for her.

Vilkas stepped back in front of Sorscha and loomed over her—which was quite a feat, seeing that he was a couple of inches shorter than she was—and she turned her attention back to him. If there was any resident of Jorrvaskr she liked less than Njada, it was Vilkas. He and Farkas may have been identical twins, but there was no trouble telling them apart. Vilkas was usually clean shaven and not as rough around the edges as Farkas. He was also slimmer than Farkas, who was heavily muscled. But where his brother had warm eyes and an easy smile, Vilkas seemed to have a permanent scowl on his face. She had only seen him smile once or twice, usually at Farkas or Ria, another new Companion.

"Torvar said it was the Silver Hand," Sorscha said, resisting the urge to take a step back.

"Aye," said Vilkas. "They finally had the courage to attack Jorrvaskr. We were able to fight them off, of course, but not without...casualties."

"Anyone else?"

"Isn't Kodlak enough?"

"Come on, Vilkas."

"No, no one else was killed, but they got away with the fragments of Wuuthrad."

Rage boiled up within Sorscha. Talk about insult to injury. "Where did they go?"

"Driftshade Refuge, near Dawnstar. And we're going together."

Oh, joy. A long trip with Vilkas picking on her the whole way, right on the heels of losing Kodlak.

"I have a couple of stops to make first."

"Make it quick."

Sorscha sneered and stepped around him. She knelt next to Farkas and placed a hand on his shoulder. He didn't look up, but he reached up and squeezed her hand. When he released it, she stood and headed for the door. "Let's go," she said to Vilkas.

Her first stop was Breezehome. She ran upstairs to her room with Vilkas hot on her heels. She thought about telling him to wait downstairs, but she wanted him to see what she was unloading. As Sorscha entered the door to the bedroom, she said, "Hello, Lydia," without even looking over. The chair in the corner of her room was her housecarl's favorite place, gods knew why. She would sooner sit up there at the table, munching on bread, than relax in the living room by the fire. It didn't bother Sorscha. Lydia was there alone most of the time; she might as well be comfortable.

Sorscha liked Lydia but didn't know her well She hadn't bothered to try and make friends with the housecarl because she was still making a half-hearted attempt to remain aloof and detached with the people of Whiterun, at least until she found out who and what she had been before she had lost her memory. It was a friendly village, so it was difficult—even more so with Lydia, who lived with her—and her resolve to keep them at arm's length was failing, but for now she would persevere as best she could.

"Greetings, my Thane," Lydia said when they walked into the room. "Vilkas."

"Lydia."

Sorscha dropped her knapsack on the bed and dug around for the bone and scale, which she held up to show Vilkas. "This was part of the reason for the delay," she said, then dropped the pieces into her foot locker.

Vilkas just stared at her.

"What?"

"I'd heard rumors, but I thought that was all they were."

"Well, now you know." She retrieved the heads, which were wrapped in a burlap sack she had found in the cave, and threw them into the chest as well, then she picked her pack up and slung it over her shoulder. "We're off, Lydia."

"Fight well, my Thane."

After a quick stop at Warmaiden's to sell a couple of items, Sorscha and Vilkas left Whiterun and headed north. Sorscha remained silent, too angry to attempt idle conversation. Even a couple of hours after her return to Jorrvaskr, she was furious—at the Silver Hand for attacking the mead hall and killing Kodlak, at the dragon for delaying her, and at Vilkas for being such an ass about it. Sorscha didn't understand it. She hadn't done anything to get on his bad side, but he had decided to dislike her, and he did everything he could to make her life difficult. Vilkas believed she spent too little time at Jorrvaskr. There was work to be done, and she wasn't around to do it. She came and went, what with working for the Thieves' Guild, fighting dragons, and running errands for what seemed like every citizen in Skyrim. She didn't mind doing favors for people; it gave her an opportunity to talk to them, ask questions, and search for clues as to where she was from, but it did keep her busy. In fact, it had just been coincidence that she had done the job for Kodlak when she did. She had been on her way to Solitude to question some shifty Argonian who was trying to help put the Thieves' Guild, which was already in dire straits, in even more trouble. She had only stopped in Whiterun to drop some things off at Breezehome and to give Aela an item she had retrieved for her, and Aela had directed her to Kodlak. Sorscha wondered how Vilkas would have treated her if she had shown up days or weeks after the Silver Hand's attack.

Sorscha used her general annoyance at Vilkas and the way he had talked to her at Jorrvaskr to fuel her anger, and she held onto it, nurtured it, so she could use it against the Silver Hand at Driftshade Refuge. Vilkas, however, wasn't finished haranguing her. Just as they reached what Sorscha liked to call the "snow line," the place where the tundra of Whiterun gave way to the snowy landscapes of The Pale, Vilkas said, "You never did tell me where you were."

"You're right. I didn't."

"So where were you?"

Sorscha stopped and stepped in, crowding him. Vilkas took a step back, but she followed and pressed her face so close that their noses were almost touching. "You want to know where I was? I'll tell you. I was at the Glenmoril Coven, killing hagravens. I brought their heads back because Kodlak thought they could cure him."

Vilkas stepped back again and said, "The Glenmoril...by the Eight!"

"But I guess I took too much time, huh? Oh, and by the way, there are _Nine_."

"Is something on your mind, Sorscha?" Vilkas snapped, his eyes blazing and rage flaring in his scent.

"Aye, something's on my mind. You have been hostile with me since the first time I walked into Jorrvaskr. You've insulted me, picked on me, ordered me around, and today you had the gall to imply that I was to blame for Kodlak's death. Do you think I didn't wonder that very thing? I returned to Jorrvaskr what, less than an hour after the Silver Hand attacked? Had I not stopped to battle that dragon, I might have made it back in time to save Kodlak. Or, I might have made it back in time to fight, he would _still_ have been killed, and you'd find some other reason to blame me. But I had to kill the dragon, because he was heading in the direction of Riverwood, and I didn't want to see another village burned to the ground."

"Another?"

"I was at Helgen." Vilkas's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak, but Sorscha cut him off. "Just tell me, Vilkas. What is it? What did I do to make you dislike me so?"

Vilkas sighed and turned away. He took off his helmet, leaned against a nearby tree, and ran a hand through his hair. "Farkas mentioned something about Helgen, but I hadn't realized you were there when the dragon attacked."

"Well, don't worry. I've gotten over it."

"How does one get over something like that?"

"Okay, so maybe I haven't."

"The nightmares."

Sorscha shrugged in response.

"I heard your cries in the night and knew you were troubled, but I didn't know the extent of it. I'm sorry if I have been too rough on you, but I don't dislike you. I just see potential in you and push you to do your best."

"But I _do_ my best. It's that or die. Or get somebody else killed. I have too much on my conscience already without having to live with that."

Vilkas put his helmet back on and stood to full height. "Shall we continue on?"

When Driftshade Refuge came into sight, Sorscha ducked behind a bush, and Vilkas crouched with her. "I can smell your anger," she said. "I know you want to rush in and slaughter every Silver Hand you come across, but Vilkas, we have to keep our heads. We can't go in there in a rage, because if we do, we won't come back out. They've killed two Companions now, and I don't want to be next, so play it smart. Stay low and let me take out the unsuspecting with the bow."

He looked as though he was about to argue, but he sighed, nodded, and said, "You're right. I will follow your lead."

Vilkas's response surprised Sorscha, but she didn't mention it now. Instead, she stepped out from behind the bush. A Silver Hand was standing guard on the roof, and Sorscha shot him down easily; but another, an Orc, came around the building and attacked. Vilkas snarled and engaged the bandit, who wielded a huge warhammer. Sorscha kept her bow trained on the Orc in case he got the better of her shield-brother.

_Shield-brother_. It was the first time she had thought of him that way.

Vilkas defeated the Orc, and they entered the keep. He let Sorscha have the lead, but he had plenty to do, himself. They came across six or eight Silver Hand, only two of which was Sorscha able to sneak up on and shoot. The other attacks resulted in bloody melees that made too much ruckus for Sorscha's comfort. The more noise they made, the less likely they would be able to sneak up on _anybody_.

In an ice-covered cellar, they found a caged werewolf. "Do we release him?" Sorscha asked.

The werewolf growled at them.

"He's out of his mind," said Vilkas. "Can't you smell it? He's completely feral. He's been subjected to torture for so long, he's imprisoned in his beast form and he's lost his humanity. If we free him, he'll attack."

"Well, we can't just leave him here. He'll starve to death."

"Then we kill him. Mercifully."

Sorscha nodded and drew her flaming sword. The werewolf looked her directly in the eye, stepped toward the bars of the cage, and nodded. He evidently wasn't as far gone as Vilkas had thought, but he wanted this. She sighed heavily and thrust the blade through the bars to pierce the werewolf's heart. With a groan, he fell to the floor and perished. Sorscha reached through and removed the blade.

"Go and hunt with Hircine, brother," Vilkas said sadly. "Let's move on."

Deep in the bowels of the fort, they came upon a set of stairs that led to a room where three Silver Hand sat at a table. They snuck onto a balcony overlooking the table, and Sorscha saw the fragments of Wuuthrad laid out before the thugs. She assessed the men. Two Nords, one Orc. One of the Nords was wearing steel plate armor similar to that the Skinner had worn at Gallows Rock. He must be the leader; they always seemed to be dressed better than the others. Sorscha figured she could take out one of them while they were sitting at the table, leaving the other two to fight hand to hand. She aimed for the one in the steel plate. The arrow hit, but it only bounced off his armor, so they had three to contend with. Sorscha dropped her bow and drew her swords.

The bandits rushed up the stairs and attacked. The Orc came at her with a warhammer and hit her hard, sending her stumbling backward. Fortunately, Farkas had taken the time to train her how to use her armor to protect herself, and she took no more than some nasty bruises. She managed to stay on her feet and engage the other Nord, who attacked her from the side. Raising the flaming sword to knock his blade upward, she shoved the other, non-enchanted blade under his raised arm, and he shrieked and dropped. Sorscha barely had time to remove the blade before the Orc swung the hammer at her again. She ducked and took a wild swing with her two swords, making negligible wounds in his legs with each of them. He backed off with an, "Oof!" giving her time to reset.

From the corner of her eye, Sorscha saw the Silver Hand in heavy armor chopping away at Vilkas with a war axe. Vilkas managed to get a swing with his greatsword, making his opponent stagger, but the heavily-armored Nord was back on him in a second. Sorscha didn't see any more, because the Orc came back at her with a vengeance, slamming his hammer into her breastplate and jarring her to the bone. She would need more than just a couple of swords to dispatch this one. _"Krii!"_ she Shouted. The Orc faltered, grunted, and came at her again, but the Marked for Death Shout had weakened him. One more strike with her flaming sword—again, only at his shoulder—and he fell to his knees. She finished him off with a stab in the back and turned to the others.

Vilkas was on his hands and knees, barely alive and covered in his own blood, and the Silver Hand leader had his axe raised over his head, ready to administer the killing blow. From this angle, he would decapitate her shield-brother before he could even attempt to get out of the way. Sorscha rushed him, swinging her weapons fiercely and slicing into his throat with one, then the other. The attack didn't decapitate him, but it did lethal damage, and the Silver Hand fell to the floor.

"Get the...fragments," Vilkas said as he collapsed.

"I'm going to take care of you first." She knelt next to him and unfastened the leather straps of his armor. She pulled the plates away and lifted his blood-soaked tunic, and she gasped. The axe had managed to get through the narrow gap between armor plates and gouge deeply into his side, shredding muscle and penetrating all the way to Vilkas's ribcage, which threatened to push through the grisly opening. Blood flowed freely from the laceration. "Sweet Mara, how am I going to do this?" she muttered. She hoped her healing spell was strong enough to put him back together long enough to get him to a healer.

"This is gonna hurt," Sorscha said as she pressed the laceration closed, but Vilkas didn't react. "Vilkas, are you with me?" she asked him.

"I'm all right," he croaked, although she knew he was far from all right.

Sorscha fought panic as she struggled with the wound. How long ago had it been since she had warned him about keeping his head? It was only a couple of hours; it seemed like years. Holding it closed as best she could with one hand, she readied her healing spell.

"No," he pleaded when her hand began to glow. "No magic."

"Oh, just shut up." She released the spell, and he didn't protest again. She watched as the magic knit the muscle back together, but she ran out of energy before the outside started to mend. She groaned in frustration and reached for her pack. As she was digging around for a magicka potion, Vilkas started to sit up.

"Lie back down," Sorscha said. "I want to do this again."

"I'm fine," he said.

Sorscha glared him in the eye. "Lie. Down."

"You can be such a bitch."

"So can you. Now, mind me."

Vilkas chuckled and lay back down. Sorscha drank a potion, readied the spell again, and aimed the glowing orb at his wound. It still didn't heal him completely, but it was enough. After resting a few more minutes, he was able to struggle to his feet.

Sorscha went to the table and retrieved the fragments of Wuuthrad, then looted a nearby chest, and they were ready to go home. Though Vilkas wanted to get back as quickly as possible, Sorscha made sure they took their time as they made their way back through the fort and started trudging through the snow toward Whiterun. She had done a fair job of healing him, but the wound was grave, and she didn't want to take the chance that it would break open while they were out in the elements.

After a while, Vilkas said, "You saved my life. Thank you."

"You'd have done the same."

"No, I couldn't have healed you like that. Farkas and I have always had no use for magic. We were...hurt...by magic as children, and we've been afraid of it, even healing magic. We may have been wrong. I was definitely wrong about you."

"I thought you said I had potential."

"Potential, yes, but I still underestimated you. You're young, and you're pretty. There are no lines on your face, no scars, as if you've led a sheltered life, so I thought you might be soft."

"Perhaps I'm just really good at what I do."

"Perhaps. You're much more skillful than I imagined. And you're a natural leader; do you know that?"

"I don't feel much like a leader. Everybody's always telling me what to do."

He chuckled. "It has been my experience that the leaders get ordered around even more than the followers. The good ones, anyway. I believe I should have listened to my shield-brothers when they talked about you. Aela admires you, and coming from her, that's quite a compliment. In Farkas's mind, you can do no wrong."

"He said that?"

"Essentially. He watches you all the time, you know."

"What do you mean?"

"When you're in the room, he never takes his eyes off you."

"He's just observant."

"No, he's not."

"Yes, he is," Sorscha said pointedly. "You don't give him enough credit."

"Perhaps you're right. But that still doesn't discount the fact that he's in love with you."

Sorscha's heart leapt. She had known something was there. With the enhanced senses of the Beast Blood, she could smell his desire, but hearing it out loud, and so distinctly, was something entirely different. She couldn't deny that she had feelings for him, too, but the fact remained: she didn't deserve a man like Farkas. He was honorable, forthright, even kind-hearted. She was a thief. He had told her she had honor, but sometimes she wasn't even sure what the word meant.

"I would never hurt him," she said, "but I don't think it would work between us."

"If it's because he's not smart"—

"No, it's not that. Never that. I just don't think he'd love me if he knew more about me."

Vilkas shrugged. "Farkas has an open mind, and not much bothers him. You might be surprised."

Sorscha wanted to think Vilkas was right, but she knew what she was, even if she didn't know _who_ she was. Farkas deserved better than that.

They arrived at Whiterun and went up to the Skyforge, where Kodlak's funeral was just getting underway. Farkas watched Sorscha through most of the ceremony. They made eye contact at one point, and he smiled at her.

No. She wouldn't let it happen. She couldn't. He'd get over it, and so would she.

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC

6


	5. Chapter 5 Raging Success

**Sorscha is working for the Thieves Guild much of the time these days, but when she makes a pit stop in Whiterun, Vilkas asks for a favor. On what should have been a simple mission, she finds a little more adventure.**

Searching for Memories V

Raging Success

Sorscha needed to quit stopping in Whiterun on her way to other places. Whenever she did, all Oblivion broke loose. The problem was, though, this was her home, and not just because she owned a house here. The merchants knew her and worked with her on prices and hard-to-find items, and most of the people called her "friend," even Idolaf Battle-Born, whom she couldn't stand. He didn't seem to do anything but parade around town in his Imperial armor, spouting insults at the Stormcloaks and the Gray-Manes, with whom they carried on a bitter feud. His brother Jon loitered in the marketplace all day, pretending nobody noticed him making goo-goo eyes at Olfina Gray-Mane, and even _he_ did more than Idolaf. At least he wasn't too good to help a vendor carry merchandise every once in a while. Sorscha had once told Idolaf she favored the Battle-Borns in an attempt to get information from him, and now he was her best friend. She had taken to picking his pocket whenever she got the chance, and she must have stolen more than 200 septims from him by now.

Townspeople aside, she also had the Companions. Damn that Kodlak Whitemane. What was he thinking, making her Harbinger? Now, due to some inborn, misguided sense of responsibility, Sorscha felt she had to stop in if she was in the area.

And then there was Farkas. Her feelings for him grew stronger every day, and Sorscha tried desperately to resist them. She had too much to do without throwing a romance into the mix. As it was, she had seriously neglected her mission to discover who was attempting to bring down the Thieves' Guild, what with Kodlak's death, the trip to Ysgramor's tomb to cleanse his spirit, and then Vilkas and Farkas both wanting to return to cleanse _their_ spirits. She had cured herself of the Beast Blood as well and had taken a day to do nothing but sleep, further delaying the job. She couldn't blame that on the Companions, of course, but like it or not, she had a soft spot for them, Farkas in particular—and truth be known, Vilkas, too. They had become friends since their trip to Driftshade Refuge, and Sorscha had grown to adore him. He had a great sense of humor if one could get past his brooding demeanor and fiery temper. He possessed a better understanding of why she couldn't spend all her time at Jorrvaskr and didn't criticize her about it anymore. They still clashed—Sorscha had a temper to match his—but they understood the conflicts for what they were and didn't stay angry.

When he asked if she would do a job for him before she left again, Sorscha couldn't bring herself to say no. "It won't take long," Vilkas promised. "A couple of days, and you'll be on your way. A valuable family heirloom has gone missing, and they have paid us to retrieve it. It's a shield that's been in the client's family for generations."

"Where is it?"

"We believe it's in Cragwallow Slope in Eastmarch."

"Okay, I'll do it." On her way out the door, Sorscha caught sight of Farkas sitting at a side table in the main hall, drinking mead and chewing on a piece of venison. She sat down next to him.

"Good morning, Wolf."

"Hi," he said, glad to see her.

They made small talk for a few minutes, and Sorscha had to admit she was stalling. She had to go, not just to pick up the shield but because being this close to him was just too frustrating. Things had been awkward since Vilkas had told her Farkas loved her. Thus, when she started to leave, she had no idea why she said, "I'm running an errand for Vilkas. Want to come along?"

"Sure," Farkas said indifferently. He might have been playing it cool, but he didn't waste any time getting ready to go. Less than ten minutes later, they were on their way to Eastmarch.

The trip, which was about a day and a half each way, would take them near Eldergleam Sanctuary and across the Aalto, Eastmarch's sulfur flats. Skyrim was a dangerous place, and they dealt with two bears and a handful of bandits on the way. The more time they spent together, the less awkward it was, and they passed the time by telling each other stories of their exploits. It seemed they never ran out of things to talk about, although Farkas didn't talk much around others. He didn't speak well, and she guessed he was self-conscious, but he felt safe with her.

They reached Eldergleam Sanctuary just after sunset. Farkas pointed to the doorway. "A cave. Dark. Dangerous." He said the word "dangerous" enthusiastically.

"Not this cave," she told him.

"What do you mean?"

"Fancy a side trip?"

"That was kind of a hint that I wanted to go in."

"Then follow me." She led Farkas into the black doorway and through a winding tunnel until it opened onto an enormous cavern that was neither dark nor dangerous. Starlight twinkled through a break in the high ceiling, and creep cluster, dragon's tongue and small evergreen trees lined a stone path that wound through an intimate garden and led up to Eldergleam, the tree for which the sanctuary was named. The majestic, pink-blossomed tree reigned over the gardens below, its roots extending out in all directions and covering the path to its trunk. The tree was said to be the embodiment of the goddess Kynareth herself, and worshipers considered it sacred. Sorscha had to agree. The whole place had an otherworldly quality. The colors were brighter, the scents were fresher, and the sounds were crisper, sharper. Even at night, the cave seemed to have light of its own, as though Kynareth had blessed it with its own sun. Butterflies flitted from bloom to bloom, and birds chirped from their nests in hidden nooks overhead. A stream, which was fed by two high waterfalls cascading from openings above, meandered through the cave.

"Wow," Farkas whispered in awe.

"It's really something, isn't it?" She led him along the path and across a tiered yard covered with moss and grass. The sanctuary was deserted; they were alone with the birds and butterflies. After a moment they came to the deep pool the waterfalls poured into. Farkas knelt next to the pool and ran his hand through the water.

"It's warm," he said.

"Aye, the water flows in from the sulfur springs."

"It doesn't smell like the water on the flats, though."

"Maybe the proximity to Eldergleam and the spirit of this place cleanses the water somehow."

He looked up at her and smiled. "Want to go swimming?"

"What?"

Farkas stood up and started taking off his armor. He undressed to his loincloth and jumped in. "Well, come on!" he called.

Sorscha stripped down to her underclothes and jumped in, then swam toward the nearest waterfall with Farkas trailing after her. When she reached the falls, she dove, more out of habit than anything else. She had found lots of treasure chests beneath or behind waterfalls. There was nothing under this one, however, and she swam back up. When she reached the surface, Farkas was close by, and he reached for her. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, and Sorscha threw her arms around his neck and opened her mouth to his.

They made love on a grassy shelf behind the waterfall, the perfect place in this perfect paradise. As she held Farkas, Sorscha knew she was in serious trouble. So much for nothing happening between them. But at the moment, she didn't really care. She would worry about it tomorrow. For now, all that mattered was him and his body as it moved in sync with hers.

Afterward, they rested together on the soft grass. Sorscha lay on her side, pressing her back against Farkas and propping her head on his arm as he draped the other one over her protectively and kissed her hair. After a while his breathing became slow and steady; he had fallen asleep. Feeling truly at peace for the first time since she had awakened on the cart bound for Helgen, Sorscha closed her eyes and drifted off.

* * *

"_Fus...ro dah!"_

_She glared at the dragon and raised a hand to stop it. "Nuh-uh, not today. I'm happy, and you're not gonna muck it up. Bother me tomorrow."_

A tickling sensation woke Sorscha from the very strange dream. She opened her eyes to find herself still lying with her back to Farkas, who was gently stroking her arm. She turned over and looked up at him. The sun shone in through the openings in the ceiling. "Hi," she said sleepily.

"It's morning."

"I see that. We slept all night."

"You want to know my favorite thing about not being a werewolf anymore? It's sleeping."

Sorscha chuckled. She had enjoyed being a werewolf, but the lack of rest she had gotten with the Beast Blood was damned inconvenient. "Me, too."

He leaned in and kissed her, and she ran her fingers through his hair. "You're so beautiful," he murmured.

"So are you. You know, I could lie here with you all day, but we should probably get up and start moving."

Farkas groaned. "Oh, fine."

High, steep rocks surrounded most of the pool, but they finally found a place where they could climb out and get to their clothes. They dressed, then munched on sweet rolls Sorscha had packed. The rolls were a little soggy from the mist of the waterfall, but they were still edible. At this point, Sorscha didn't care if she'd had to eat her armor. Nothing could spoil this moment.

That is, until she heard the dragon.

Through the opening above, they could hear the cries of the creature, which flew on the sulfur flats nearby. Sorscha rolled her eyes. "Damn it, I told it to leave me alone!"

"Huh?"

"I had a dream. A dragon was trying to pick a fight, but I told him he wasn't going to screw up my day. I guess he had other ideas."

Farkas laughed and stroked her cheek, then said, "Well, we'll just have to screw up _his_ day."

They emerged from the cave into a thicket of evergreens. Sunlight shone through the leaves and branches and left myriad shapes of glimmering light on the ground. All the light was dimmed, however, as the huge shadow of the dragon passed overhead. Sorscha drew her bow, as did Farkas, and they went around the outside of the cave to the Aalto so they would have better access to the dragon. They could kill it more easily if it was on the ground, and it needed room to land.

The problem was the dragon didn't want to land. It flew in circles around them, taunting them, howling at them, but never dropping low enough for actual combat. Sorscha shot a couple of arrows at it in an effort to make it angry enough to touch down, but it continued to soar over their heads. Finally, Sorscha got tired of the wait and said the magic words.

"_Land, bitch!_"

With that, the dragon wailed and dove for them. Sorscha didn't know what it was. The words certainly weren't magic, but saying, "Land, bitch," or calling them overgrown chickens would get them on the ground faster than anything else. They used to rule the humans, so they had surely picked up their language. She guessed they didn't like being insulted by the lesser beings.

The dragon still didn't land, but it did drop close enough to Shout at them. A concentrated snowstorm washed over them, and Farkas swore. The bitter cold was painful but not damaging. They were Nords, and they had grown up on the frozen tundra, braving blizzards since they could walk. Sorscha patiently waited until the snow dissipated and she could see again, and then loosed a Shout of her own.

"_Krii...lun!"_

The dragon fell to the ground, righted itself, and began lumbering toward them. Sorscha figure walking had to be painful for dragons; it appeared as though they were walking on their wrists. The movement was slow and awkward, providing time to back away and shoot. Farkas, however, having switched to his greatsword while Sorscha was exchanging Shouts with the dragon, charged it and started swinging. The beast sent another barrage of frost at him, giving Sorscha time to switch to her own swords. She stood far enough back so that the dragon couldn't turn its head and bite her, and with the monster furiously trying to reach them, she and Farkas delivered jab after jab at the dragon, who was already debilitated by her newly improved Marked for Death Shout. The dragon finally screamed, seized up, and crashed to the ground. It started to disintegrate, and Sorscha felt the rush of heat and the presence in her mind.

"_Dovahkiin...," _ the dragon whispered as its essence faded away.

Sorscha wrestled a bone and scale from the beast. She also found a sapphire and thirty-five gold pieces amongst the bones. She gave Farkas the gold and pocketed the gem, and then she started across the flats in the direction of a steep, rocky hill.

"Cragwallow slope is that way," Farkas reminded her.

"Aye, but I'm betting there's a lair at the top of that hill, and a lair means a Shout."

They found a den, complete with Word Wall, treasure chest, and scads of mammoth bones, and Sorscha wondered if the dragon had been eating the mammoths or if they were already here when it moved in. The wall spoke to her, and then she closed her eyes and reached deep into her psyche for the dragon she had just slain, bidding him to share his understanding of the word. Her head swam and a chill ran down her spine, and then she understood.

"_Fo!"_ she Shouted. A stream of snow and ice burst forth from her mouth. Sorscha didn't feel the cold herself, but ice crystals spread over the Word Wall. She turned to Farkas, who stood with his ears covered.

"When you're going to do that, could you try to warn me?"

"Sorry."

"_Dovahkiin!"_ a voice rang in her head. Farkas didn't hear it; the Greybeards had discontinued shaking the ground and scaring the people with their audible calls and had begun sending her private messages. How they did it was beyond her.

"What is it?" Farkas asked, noting her change in expression.

"The Greybeards. They're talking in my head now. I really hate that." She turned toward the west, where the Throat of the World loomed in the mists. "I guess I'm going to have to make the pilgrimage to High Hrothgar at some point," she mused. "They're persistent."

"Okay, let's go."

"They can wait a little longer. Now, we go to Cragwallow Slope."

They started across the Aalto again. Sorscha felt comfortable here, even safe, in spite of the fact that the treeless landscape left them dangerously exposed to enemies. As they walked, she pointed out spots of interest to Farkas. "We want to skirt around the giant camp that's just to the north," she remarked. She led him across a path of flat boulders that flanked a steamy lake. "There's a small cave just under these rocks. It's not big enough to hide a chest, but it's a great place to stash toys. There's a shrine of Akatosh just to the south. The main road runs through just over there, and we can turn north toward Cragwallow after we cross it."

"Sorscha," Farkas said, "how do you know all that?"

Sorscha gasped with sudden realization. "I remember it!" She ran toward the road and turned north when she crossed it. Shortly after she turned, she went up a rise to a plateau where there lay a handful of flattish boulders that resembled a table and chairs. "Wolf, I've been here before. I _know_ this place. I think I played here as a child."

"There's a settlement to the south. Do you think you're from there?"

Sorscha looked southward, and hope flooded through her. "After we get the shield, we'll go there," she declared.

They had a hairy fight in Cragwallow slope when they were attacked by several mages and their atronachs. Farkas fought viciously, spouting threats and insults throughout the altercation. Sorscha tried to keep a cool head, but she was anxious to get the battle over with and go to the village. Why were people always delaying her when she needed to get somewhere?

They prevailed with only minor injuries, retrieved the shield and some other loot, and were soon on their way. What they found at the settlement was disheartening. Darkwater Crossing was less a village and more a campsite on the edge of the river. Only one house stood, and the owners kept a few rows of crops behind it. The rest of the residents lived in tents. Next to the tents were several racks used for hanging fish, and a dirt road led to a mine. There was nothing more to the village, and none of it looked familiar. Sorscha's heart sank. She looked dejectedly at Farkas, who gazed back at her with an expression of such sympathy that it almost made hear tear up.

An attractive woman came out of the house and approached them. "We don't get many strangers here," she said, "unless they're looking for work in the mine, and we don't really need anyone right now." She stopped and looked closely at Sorscha, narrowing her eyes. "S-Sorscha?" she said uncertainly.

"You know me?"

The woman laughed with delight and placed her hands on Sorscha's shoulders. "Just look at how you've grown! Your face hasn't changed much, but you've gotten so tall!"

"I'm sorry," said Sorscha. "I don't remember you."

The woman nodded. "You were very small. You must have only been five or six when you and your mother left. You used to play with my daughter, Sylgia, out on the Aalto. We had so much trouble keeping you at home." She laughed at the fond memory.

"What's your name?"

"Oh, dear, I'm sorry. I'm Anneke."

"This is Farkas," Sorscha said, pointing to her companion...friend...lover—what did she call him now?

"Come inside," said Anneke. "Have a drink. We just got a shipment of Black-Briar mead."

Sorscha and Farkas followed Anneke into the house and accepted mugs of mead warmed with a poker from the fireplace. Anneka asked about Sorscha's mother, and Sorscha told her about her amnesia. "I was apparently very near here when I was arrested by Imperial soldiers," she said. "They hit me on the head and knocked me unconscious."

"That wasn't long ago," said Anneke. "Rumor has it the Imperials captured Ulfric Stormcloak. He's back in Windhelm now, and many of us thought it was nothing more than a rumor."

"No, it was true. He was on the cart with me when I came to. But I don't remember anything about my life before that day."

"I wish I could help you, but you and your mother left long ago and I never heard from her again."

"What was her name?" Sorscha asked.

"It was Fjona. You look quite a bit like her."

"What about my father?"

Anneke shrugged. "Your mother was a Stormcloak soldier, and she got pregnant while she was serving. As far as I know, she never saw your father again. She worked here in the mine for a few years, and when we ran into a patch of hard times, she took you and left to find work elsewhere."

"You don't know where she went?"

"She went north; I do remember that. Perhaps she went to Windhelm. Kynesgrove is to the north as well; you might try there."

Sorscha turned to Farkas. "Kynesgrove."

Farkas, who hadn't said a word since they entered Darkwater Crossing, nodded mutely.

"It's getting late," said Anneke. "Why don't you stay and get some rest before you go on your way?"

Sorscha shook her head. "No, we're on a mission for the Companions, and they're expecting us back. We've delayed too much already. But thank you so much."

Anneke hugged Sorscha and said, "Come back to visit anytime, and let me know if you find your mother. Good luck to you, dear."

Sorscha and Farkas left Darkwater Crossing, but they didn't go far; they stopped at Eldergleam Sanctuary to spend the night. A few pilgrims milled around the cave, so there would be no repeat of the night before, but that was okay. Sorscha still resisted, stubbornly refusing to fall for the sweet, quiet, gentle, deadly warrior who looked at her so lovingly, kissed her deeply, and wrapped his strong arms around her as they lay on the grass near the waterfall.

Kynesgrove. Maybe they would have some answers for her. Maybe they would have nothing, but it didn't matter. After two months of this mission and that, of stealing, fighting, and talking to people but learning nothing about her past, Sorscha rested her head knowing more than she had when she had gotten up that morning. With that, the retrieval of the shield, and—whether she wanted to admit it or not—making love with Farkas, Sorscha felt she could safely call this quest a raging success.

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC

6


	6. Chapter 6 Betrayal

**I've had complaints from readers about skipping ahead too much, so I'll apologize in advance. In this chapter, Sorscha's life takes a turn for the worse.**

Searching for Memories VI

Betrayal

Mercer Frey was livid. He had been waiting too long for Sorscha to return from her mission, and now that she was back, bad news was not what he wanted to hear. She had traveled to Solitude in order to obtain information on an unknown entity that seemed to be trying to bring down the Thieves' Guild. Gullum-Ei, an Argonian that Sorscha had interrogated regarding a recent sale of property controlled by the Guild, had said someone named Karliah had it in for the Guild, and Mercer in particular.

The instant Sorscha said the name "Karliah," Mercer's face turned red and his eyes blazed. The middle-aged guildmaster was severe looking to start with—his salt-and-pepper hair and the lines around his eyes from his constant scowl gave him an intimidating air—and the fury he radiated over Karliah made him downright scary.

"Damn it!" he snarled. "I hoped I'd never see that one again."

"Who is she?"

"She murdered my predecessor, Gallus, twenty-five years ago."

"Then I think it's time for her to die."

"I agree, but I have no idea how to find her."

"I do. Gullum-Ei said she would be 'where the end began.'"

If it was possible for Mercer to look even angrier, he achieved it. He actually growled. "Snow Veil Sanctum, in Winterhold," he muttered. "She's got a lot of nerve going back there. It's where she killed Gallus, and she almost killed me. I still have the scar. I have _a lot_ of scars from that day."

"I'm on my way, then."

"I'm going with you. I owe her. I have some things to wrap up here, and I'll meet you there at midday tomorrow."

Sorscha had a few things to sell before heading out, so she went to the Ragged Flagon to trade with Tonilia, the Guild's fence. She ran into Brynjolf on the way. Sorscha had a mild crush on the Guild's second-in-command. It was nothing near what she felt for Farkas, of course, just a little fantasizing about getting into his pants. He was quite a bit older than she was, in his mid-forties, with red hair that hung to his shoulders, emerald-green eyes, and a healthy tan from standing in his market stall every day. He also had the most amazing accent. She didn't know where he got it because he was a Nord, but she didn't care. She could stand and just listen to him talk all day.

"You're back, lass. How did it go with Gullum-Ei?"

"He sang like a bird. Apparently, someone named Karliah is behind—"

"Karliah! Have you told Mercer?"

Sorscha nodded. "Aye, and he was not happy about it."

"I can imagine. I believe she did more damage to the Guild than anyone else in history."

"Well, Mercer and I are going after her."

Brynjolf's brow furrowed with worry. "Be careful, lass. Karliah is not only a master thief, she's a killer. She murdered Gallus and nearly took Mercer out as well. She's not to be trifled with."

"I'm always careful, Bryn. If I'm not, people die, and I'm not about to let that happen to Mercer."

If she had only known.

* * *

After selling her loot and eating, Sorscha lay down on one of the spare beds in the Cistern, only to be awakened several hours later by Rune, who was shaking her urgently.

"Sorscha, wake up!" he cried.

She sat up and grabbed his arms, her heart pounding and her breath coming in frightened gasps. "Damn it, another nightmare."

"Are you all right?"

Sorscha shook her head. "You'd think I'd be used to them by now. It's been months."

"Since what?"

Rune was a sweetheart. The warm-eyed Imperial always had a kind word, not only for her but for everyone else in the Guild. When she had first met him, he had told her he didn't know his origins. A fisherman had found him as a small child, wandering near a shipwreck, with only a rune stone in his possession. He had spent his entire life trying to find some clue about his parents. Now Sorscha confided in him about her amnesia, as well as the nightmares and the dragons.

"Then you're more than just my sister in crime," he said. "You promised to look for answers for me; I'll do the same for you. I don't know what I can do about the dragons, though. I'm not a fighter."

"Don't you worry. I'll handle the dragons. I'm not nearly as afraid of them in real life as I am in my dreams."

Rune chuckled. "Seems to me that should be the other way around."

She swung her legs over the side of the bed. "I guess I'd better be off. I don't know what kind of weather I'm going to run into."

Sorscha set out for Winterhold Hold, hoping she didn't meet any dragons on the way. The last time she had been distracted from an important mission by a dragon, somebody died, and she didn't want a repeat. Aside from a bear and biting wind that threatened to knock her off her feet, the trip was uneventful, and she met Mercer early. He grumbled anyway.

"I've been waiting for hours," he complained.

"You said midday, and the sun has not yet reached its zenith. Quit whining."

Mercer glared at her but didn't say anything else.

After a particularly complex lock on the front door, which Mercer picked easily, they found Snow Veil Sanctum to be a typical Nord ruin. They killed the draugr, circumvented the traps, and picked up the treasure as they made their way through. Sorscha found fighting with Mercer very frustrating. He warned her about traps in a manner that suggested he thought she was a total incompetent, and then actually tripped some himself. Time and again, he stepped in front of her when she was aiming her bow, attacked a draugr and got blown out of the way with an Unrelenting Force Shout, only to brag about killing the thing after Sorscha saved him. Once, she accidentally/on-purpose nicked him with an arrow.

"Hey, watch it!" he cried.

"Then stay out of my line of fire!" She had promised Brynjolf she wouldn't let anything happen to Mercer. She intended to keep her promise if she didn't kill him herself.

Deep inside the ruin, they came to a huge doorway with a puzzle lock. The contraption had three concentric rings carved with animals, all surrounding a circle requiring a jeweled, dragon claw key to open. They had found no such key; Karliah probably had it in her possession.

"Lovely," Sorscha groaned.

"Not to worry," Mercer said. "These are easy. You just have to know the trick." He stepped up to the door, making sure she couldn't see around him, and worked the lock. In a moment, the rings rotated into the proper position and the door began to descend into its slot. Sorscha thought she was pretty good at picking locks, but it seemed Mercer could get through anything.

Mercer stepped back to let Sorscha go in first. She didn't get far. As soon as she stepped through the door, she felt a burning pain in her shoulder, and dizziness overtook her. She fell to the floor, but when she tried to get up, she found she was unable to move. Karliah, she assumed, had shot her with an arrow dipped in paralysis poison.

Sorscha watched helplessly as Mercer stepped over her and approached Karliah, who waited nearby. She listened to their conversation in disbelief. Karliah wasn't the betrayer at all; it was Mercer. He had murdered Gallus, who had been Karliah's lover; and he intended to kill Karliah now, not to avenge Gallus but to clean up what he called "loose ends."

Sorscha realized _she_ was a loose end as well. Oh, she was dead.

Karliah, knowing she couldn't defeat Mercer in a fight, took an invisibility potion and disappeared. Then Mercer came to Sorscha.

"I brought you here to get rid of you, obviously," he said, "but I should thank you for making it so easy for me. I'll get Karliah, but you won't be around to see it." With that, he drew his sword and buried it in her abdomen.

The last thought Sorscha had before she lost consciousness was that she would never see Farkas again, and he wouldn't even know what had happened to her. "Wolf," she said with a whimper.

* * *

Her shoulder hurt. Her stomach hurt. Her head hurt. Aye, she pretty much hurt all over.

Sorscha opened her eyes, and through blurred vision she saw a figure kneeling over her. She tried to sit up, but her head swam.

"Careful," said a gentle voice with an elven accent. "Sit up slowly."

Sorscha's eyes cleared to see a dark elf. She was slim and pretty, but her light-brown hair and lavender eyes made Sorscha wonder if she was of mixed race. When she noted the very old Thieves' Guild armor that the elf wore, she realized who knelt in front of her. It was Karliah.

"Hey," she said as propped herself up on her hands. "You shot me!"

"I saved your life," Karliah said. She explained that the toxin applied to the arrow had slowed Sorscha's heart rate so she didn't bleed out when Mercer stabbed her. Mercer, she said, had gotten away.

"When I find him, I'm gonna kill him," Sorscha declared angrily.

"Not until we expose his treachery. I found Gallus's journal in the ruin, but it's in an unknown language. We must get it translated."

"Fine. Where do I go?"

"Enthir at the College of Winterhold may be able to help us. We'll start there."

"_Dovakhiin!"_

Sorscha sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. "Oh, for the gods' sake! Karliah, I hate to do this to you, but I have something I need to take care of before I go see Enthir. I've put it off for too long, and it simply can't wait any longer."

"I understand. Come to Winterhold as soon as you can."

Sorscha set out immediately for Ivarstead, where she would stop before ascending the Seven Thousand Steps to High Hrothgar, the monastery that was home to the Greybeards. They ignored everybody else in Tamriel, but they had been trying to get her attention since she killed her first dragon. Very well, she thought. She would meet the secretive monks so they would stop screaming in her head, and then she would take revenge on Mercer Frey. Or die trying.

As she traveled, she thought about Mercer's betrayal and her last thoughts before she drifted into unconsciousness. She had worried that Farkas would never know what happened to her. Now she realized that was the way it had to be. The life of a mercenary such as he was could be dangerous, but Sorscha had so much more to worry about than fighting the occasional bandit or clearing the nearest crypt of the undead. And here she had actually thought the Thieves' Guild would be easy. Stealing _was_ easy; nearly getting gutted by a fellow Guild member wasn't.

No, it was better to cut ties now than let the relationship go any further. They had slept together once, but it couldn't happen again. She wouldn't go back to Jorrvaskr, wouldn't see Farkas again. Her disappearance would hurt him, but not as badly as if they became steady lovers—or got married—and then something happened to her on the road and he never heard from her again.

A tear trailed down her cheek as Ivarstead came into view.

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC

4


	7. Chapter 7 News Travels Fast

**Something a little different in this chapter as we get the points of view of a few people who are keeping tabs on Sorscha.**

Searching for Memories 7

News Travels Fast

Vilkas sat at Kodlak's desk, in Kodlak's chair. He knew he should think of it as Sorscha's chair, but she'd hardly ever sat in it. Now it appeared she'd never sit there again. He read the letter Lydia had given him for the fourth time.

_Dear Vilkas,_

_It is my deepest regret to tell you that I can no longer act as Harbinger of the Companions. I can't tell you how much this decision hurts me, but it's necessary. I cannot discuss the details. My reasons have to be my own. The key to the Harbinger's quarters is enclosed; I leave the Companions in your capable hands._

_Please take care of Farkas, and tell him I'm sorry. I know I said I'd never hurt him, but this is just the way it has to be. I hope he'll understand._

_Sorscha_

He looked up at Sorscha's housecarl, who sat across from him. "Did she tell you anything else?"

"No," said Lydia. "I didn't even see her. Mallus Maccius from the meadery delivered your letter, and one for me."

"What did she say in that one?"

"I really shouldn't—"

"Please, Lydia. I'm just trying to figure out what's going on."

"All she said was that she didn't plan to return to Breezehome for the foreseeable future. She gave me an address to forward her correspondence and promised to keep in touch as best she could, but she didn't give me more information. You know how she is; she never says much."

"And the forwarding address?"

"I don't think she wanted you to know."

Anger surged within Vilkas. He would have thought his disposition would have improved when he was cured of the Beast Blood, but it still threatened so often to overwhelm him. He knew Lydia was only trying to protect her thane, but it made Vilkas want to pick her up and shake her. He tossed the letter on the desk and ran trembling fingers through his hair. How was he supposed to lead the Companions when he couldn't even control his own temper?

"She's passing the role of Harbinger to me," he said. "I need to contact her to discuss anything that might come up during the transition."

"Vilkas, I know you've been leading the Companions ever since Sorscha became Harbinger. She's never here. I'd wager you already know more about the job than she ever did."

He launched out of his chair and loomed over Lydia. "Why are you making this so difficult?" he roared.

Unintimidated, she stood up to meet his glare. "Because my loyalties lie with her, not you!" she retorted. "Look, I don't know why she left, but I do know that if she wanted you to know where she went, she would have told you in her letter."

Vilkas sat back down and picked up the letter again. "Something's wrong. You know that."

Lydia sighed heavily. "Perhaps you're right; I can't say. Honestly, you know her better than I do. But she's strong, Vilkas. She's _Dragonborn,_ for Talos's sake! Whatever she's gotten into, if she can't get herself out, I doubt we can help her. I have to go. I should get back to Breezehome."

"Lydia, if you hear anything—anything at all—please let me know."

"I will if I can."

Lydia left, and Vilkas read the letter again. "Take care of Farkas," she had said. Well, he already did that, but what was he going to tell him? Farkas had never said a word, but Vilkas knew his brother well enough to comprehend the depth of his feelings. He would probably _still_ never say a word, but he would be devastated.

When Sorscha had first arrived at Jorrvaskr, Vilkas hadn't cared for her. There was something about her, something off, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Over time he had learned it was less something off and more something special, and he had grown to care very deeply for her. She was indeed something special, possibly the strongest, most courageous person he had ever met. Vilkas was a leader, a teacher, but this pretty young woman with no scars and no memories had taught him more in the last few weeks than he had learned in a lifetime.

But now, as he read the note yet again and tried to figure out how he was going to tell Farkas she wasn't coming back, all that went out the window, and he hated her.

* * *

Ulfric Stormcloak sat on the throne, watching his visitor stride toward him. The great hall was built in such a way that anyone entering the palace would have immediate access to the throne. It wasn't the best of setups, but it was the way it was done in most of Skyrim's holds. Besides, if anyone had the audacity to attack him in his own palace, Galmar and the other guards would be on hand to defend him. And truth be known, Ulfric was quite adept at defending himself.

The name of the man who walked toward him was Lars; Ulfric didn't know his surname, or if he even had one. He wore the uniform of a Stormcloak soldier, but he wasn't in the army. It was simply the clothing most likely to help him blend in within the walls of Windhelm. Lars was a master at blending in as part of an elite staff of spies and operatives in Ulfric's employ. They did all the things good members of such an organization did—keep tabs on Ulfric's enemies, on his _friends_, deliver messages too sensitive to be entrusted to normal couriers, carry out assassinations, and other tasks their leader might require of them. Ulfric's organization didn't have a name. It would never gain the reputation of the Dark Brotherhood, the Companions, even the Penitus Oculatus, because it didn't exist. Only Ulfric, Galmar, and the operatives knew about it, and many of them didn't even know each other.

Lars, a fair-haired Nord with a boyish face, was much older and more experienced than he appeared, and he usually gathered intelligence for Ulfric in places where he could hide in plain sight—posing as a young servant in the Blue Palace, for instance, or as a bright-eyed rube who wandered into an Imperial camp hoping to learn to be a "real soldier." One tended to underestimate a boy who didn't seem to have more than cotton between his ears, and Lars had proven invaluable in such capacity.

These days, however, he was working on something a bit more personal.

Lars finally reached the dais and gave Ulfric a low bow. He knew it was customary, but Ulfric had never been fond of all the bowing and kneeling. Still, he nodded his permission for the spy to rise and approach the throne.

"What news?" he asked.

"I'm afraid our quarry is hard to keep up with, my lord," said Lars. "She hides as well as I, she moves fast, and she doesn't keep regular hours. I've actually only seen her once."

"Then where do you get your information?"

"She generates a lot of gossip. Everyone has a story about her."

"But how can you know the tales are true?"

"I've been doing this long enough that I can discern fact from mere gossip, I assure you."

Ulfric chuckled. He liked Lars; the lad wasn't afraid to speak his mind. "So what do you hear?"

"She made the pilgrimage to High Hrothgar to see the Greybeards. There is no gossip from High Hrothgar, of course, but according to the people of Ivarstead, there was a lot of Shouting."

"They're teaching her the Thu'um."

"It would seem so, my Jarl. She has also met with the Blades."

Ulfric raised an eyebrow. "The Blades don't exist anymore, Lars. You know that."

With a smile, Lars said, "Neither do I, no? There may only be a handful of members, but they do still exist. I managed to catch up with Sorscha in Riverwood and eavesdropped on a conversation."

"And you're sure you weren't detected?"

"Please, my lord," Lars said smugly.

"But it's certain? She is Dragonborn?"

"Without a doubt. From Riverwood, she and the Blade traveled to Kynesgrove, where she killed a dragon and absorbed its soul."

"What was that like?" Ulfric asked eagerly. "Did you see it?"

"I arrived hours after the incident, I'm afraid, and she had already gone."

"Where is she now?"

"The residents of Kynesgrove said she headed north, and I asked around Windhelm, but no one has seen her. Perhaps she went to Winterhold. I'll go there next."

"Is there anything else?"

"As you requested, I had one of my sources check around in Riften. She has been seen in the Ragged Flagon several times."

"So she has indeed joined the Thieves' Guild?"

"It appears so."

Ulfric buried his face in his hand. Why didn't that girl ever learn? "And her memory?"

"All accounts say she still has no recollection of events before she was captured at Darkwater Crossing."

He looked back up at Lars, who stood before him awaiting orders. "If that changes, contact me immediately."

"Before, you mentioned how dangerous it could be if her memory returned. If that happens, should I arrest her and bring her here?"

Ulfric shook his head. "Lars, you're one of my best operatives. I've seen few as good with a blade, and I believe you could discover the color of the Emperor's loincloth if I asked you. I also believe there is no one in Tamriel you couldn't bring me if I demanded it—except her, especially if she has studied with the Greybeards like you said. That girl would rip you to shreds."

Lars looked insulted, but he nodded curtly and said, "Understood."

"Do not make direct contact with her. Just watch her from a distance and keep me posted on any changes or progress she makes."

"Aye, my lord." Lars bowed, then retreated.

Ulfric watched him walk back through the great hall and exit the palace, then he got up and went through the war room, up the stairs, and to his chambers. He pulled off his boots, poured himself a cup of wine, and then sat on a sofa by the fireplace, putting up his feet and laying his head back. He closed his eyes, but he would get no rest tonight. Not with the news that Lars had brought.

He'd had mages and clerics telling him for months that his defeat of High King Torygg was the last sign of the Prophecy of the Dragonborn, and on some level, he supposed he'd believed them. But when the black dragon had landed on the tower at Helgen and rained fire over the courtyard, the prophecy, the warnings, even the signs he'd seen and tried to ignore had all come crashing down around him. The dragons had returned as he'd been warned, and now the Dragonborn had risen and had made the pilgrimage to High Hrothgar. The Greybeards had no doubt told her the Thu'um was to be used in peaceful pursuits, but Ulfric knew there would be no peace for the Dragonborn, nor for him.

* * *

Astrid lay in the dark, waiting. The Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary was quiet; everybody else was asleep. Astrid hated the silence, especially when she was alone in bed. Arnbjorn had been gone for several days, doing a job in The Rift. She expected him back anytime, but she wouldn't rest until he was home. She didn't sleep well when he was away, although she wouldn't tell him. Astrid wasn't much for the sentimental, doe-eyed cooing that some lovers engaged in. When he told her he loved her she responded in kind, but otherwise she wasn't very demonstrative. He really had no idea how much she adored him.

The outside door opened and closed, and Arnbjorn stomped into the sanctuary and tossed his knapsack into a corner with a loud _thunk_. Astrid's heart leapt with joy as she listened to her husband move around the outer room, open a bottle of mead, and gulp it down. She wouldn't go to him, but she could barely stand the wait for him to come to her.

He finally came into the room, undressed, and climbed into bed next to her. Without a word, he kissed her hungrily, then began sniffing her. Astrid didn't know if it was something all werewolves did, but Arnbjorn had a ritual of smelling her body when they had been apart, almost as if he were feeding on her scent. When they had first been together, she had found it disconcerting, but now it stimulated her need for him and amounted to foreplay. He sniffed her head to toe, then turned her over and did the same with her back. When he had breathed in every inch of her, Arnbjorn moved up alongside her, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to himself possessively.

Sex with the werewolf was...novel. Their lovemaking was rough, athletic, sometimes bloody, and always very, very loud. Their brothers and sisters never said anything, and Astrid supposed they were long used to the noises coming from the bedroom. They couldn't help it; Arnbjorn made her scream, and she made him howl.

After they had torn the covers from the bed and awakened the entire Dark Brotherhood, they lay in each other's arms, hot, sweaty, and satisfied.

"I missed you," Arnbjorn said softly.

Though she had missed him desperately, she didn't tell him. Instead, she said, "How did the job go?"

"Do you really need to ask?"

"Of course, I do. It's _my_ job to ask."

"It's done, just like always," he barked. "Plus, I've got news."

"What's going on?"

"I stopped in the Ragged Flagon while I was in Riften."

"How's Delvin?"

"Afraid of me as usual." Arnbjorn chuckled. "I know you wish I wouldn't do it, but I love scaring the crap out of that Breton."

"Maybe if you didn't call him 'dessert,' he wouldn't be so frightened of you."

"Anyway, while I was there, I picked up a familiar scent."

"Who?" she asked, propping up on an elbow.

"Your friend and mine, Sorscha Swift-Hand."

Astrid gasped, and her jaw dropped. "No! She was there?"

"Not at the time. Her scent was faint, so it had probably been days since she was there, but she had definitely been to the Flagon."

"So that's where she got to. She finally joined the Guild."

"Do you want to go after her?"

Astrid considered it, but now that they knew where she was, Astrid found she was curious to see what the little thief would do. "For now, let's just keep an eye out for her, see how things play out."

"That girl is dangerous, Astrid."

"I want to know what she's up to. If it becomes necessary, we'll step in, but for now, let's just let it lie."

"Fine, but if you ask me, this is a bad idea."

Astrid bent down and kissed her husband. "Trust me," she whispered.

Arnbjorn regarded her dubiously but didn't continue to argue.

* * *

Onde sat at a table in a cramped room lit only by a single candle and peered into a soul gem the size of his head. Forraderi stood behind him, looking over his shoulder, crowding him. Onde despised the old, one-eyed Breton, who hadn't had a bath or changed his heavy mage robes in weeks; but Onde needed him, and on some level he feared him. Thus, he suffered the invasion of his space and the odor of Forraderi's filthy body and kept his mind on the task at hand.

"I can't see," Forraderi groused.

"My apologies. Would you like to sit down?"

"No. You see better than I. Just tell me."

Onde concentrated his gaze on the soul gem, which glowed with eerie pink light. After a moment, one of the flat surfaces of the crystal coalesced into an image, one Onde had come to know well. At times he only saw her face; sometimes he could see her actions and attempt to discern what she was doing; on occasion, he was able to glean minute details. Tonight, as his eyes were gazing on the lovely thief in the crystal, his mind was awash in her emotions, memories, and aspirations.

"What do you see?" Forraderi demanded.

"There is much this time," Onde replied. "She has come face-to-face with the World Eater. Now she travels to Markarth on a mission for the Thieves' Guild."

Forraderi scoffed. "Old habits die hard."

"Better to have her stealing than impeding our work."

"She impedes our work with every dragon she murders and every Shout she learns! We should have destroyed her when we had the chance."

"Our master admonished us against it," Onde reminded the Breton. "Had we killed her ourselves, retribution would have been swift and painful."

"What of her memories?"

Onde stared into the crystal, reaching out with his mind. At the moment she was camping under the stars, thinking about the Companion she was so fond of. She had left him, and she was lonely. But there were other thoughts in her head, dangerous ones.

"Her encounter with the World Eater was at Kynesgrove," he said.

"Blast! Did she remember it?"

"What, Kynesgrove? It doesn't appear that she remembered the village, but she is searching for clues to her past. We'll have to keep a closer eye on her. Recovering her memories could be disastrous."

Forraderi left the tiny room, grumbling. Onde rolled his eyes. Foolish old mage. He had accepted the fact that they couldn't kill the Dragonborn themselves, but though Onde urged him not to, he was doing everything he could to place danger in her path, hoping someone else would do the job for them. The _Dovahkiin_ was smart, though, and Onde feared that Forraderi's attempts to destroy her indirectly would awaken something within her that they couldn't stop. When their master was ready, _he_ would kill her. For now, it was better not to tempt fate, or worse, risk angering their master.

There was more, though. Regardless of his aspirations and those of his master, Onde didn't _want_ Sorscha dead. He didn't really need to keep a closer eye on her, because he didn't think he _could_ keep a closer eye. He watched her all the time as it was. Yes, she was dangerous, and yes, if she was given the opportunity, she would probably kill him on sight, or at least try. But he couldn't help being fascinated with the way she looked, the way she moved, even her speech patterns. No. The time would come when she would have to die, but Onde would keep her safe as long as possible.

* * *

After tossing and turning for hours, Sorscha finally got up, broke camp and got back on her way to Markarth, where she would meet a wizard named Calcelmo in the hope that he would help her translate Gallus's journal, which was written in the Falmer language. There was no point in lying there all night if she wasn't going to get any rest. She had too much on her mind—Markarth, Mercer Frey, the Blades, the black dragon, and Farkas, of course. And oddly, though she thought she had hidden herself pretty well, she couldn't shake the feeling she was being...watched.

She should make it to Markarth by morning, and she planned to complete her business and leave as soon as possible. Sorscha hated Markarth. The first thing she had seen upon entering the City of Stone for the first time in her memory was a murder, which was rumored to have been perpetrated by the Forsworn. Sorscha didn't fear many tangible things. She feared the black dragon, of course, and she was afraid of Mercer Frey, but not much else scared her as long as she could fight it. But the Forsworn gave her the chills. They were just men and women, but she didn't understand their magic, and they seemed more vicious than any other enemies she had encountered. Sorscha fought them just as ferociously, and she cut them down as she would any other enemy, but every time she engaged one of them, she feared the fight would be her last.

But she did what she had to do, and for now, she had to go to Markarth. She kept a wary eye on her surroundings as she entered The Reach. The Forsworn were known for ambushing travelers. It wasn't the Forsworn she felt were watching her, though. It was someone or something intangible, out of reach, something she couldn't fight, and that scared her worse than the Forsworn.

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC

6


	8. Chapter 8 Fool's Errand

Searching for Memories 8

Fool's Errand

"You're what?" Brynjolf asked incredulously.

"I'm Thane," Sorscha replied smugly from across the counter of Bryn's kiosk in the marketplace. They spent a lot of time together these days. Sharing the secret of the Nightingales had brought them closer, and they shared a lot of other confidences with each other.

"How did _that_ happen?" Bryn said, gaping at the news of her new title.

"Jarl Laila had a problem with an illegal skooma operation, and I helped her out. She said I was a Riften's protector, of the caliber of Mjoll the Lioness."

Her fellow Nightingale laughed with delight. "Love I'm really starting to believe you can do anything. You play both sides of the fence better than anyone I've ever seen. You even put Maven Black-Briar to shame."

"Don't say that too loud. If she hears, she might have me thrown in jail."

"Or have a contract put out with the Dark Brotherhood. So. What does a thane do?"

"Nothing different. It's an honorary title with all the perks and none of the duties. I've got a house, too, and a housecarl."

"She gave you a house?"

"No, I had to pay for the house. She gave me the housecarl, though."

"Who is it?"

"Iona."

Brynjolf made a face. "Were you planning on doing any Guild business out of the house?"

"Probably. Why?"

"Iona is fairly lawful. You might not be able to get away with much."

"Not a problem. I'm also an honorary member of the Blades."

"The what?"

Sorscha explained that the Blades were an order of warriors who, in the distant past, were noted dragon slayers. After the dragons were gone, they spent their time protecting the emperor until the Thalmor decimated them. "There are one or two left," she told him, "and their duty is to serve the Dragonborn."

"Nice."

"They're recruiting, so I recruited Iona. We're leaving later today to take her to the Blades' headquarters. Hey, do you want to see the house?"

Bryn closed up shop, and they strolled through Riften to Honeyside, which was on the northwest side of town just over Beggar's Row. Sorscha showed him around the first floor, which as really nothing more than a kitchen and bedroom, and then the basement, which housed an alchemy lab, arcane enchanter, and Iona's room. When they went back upstairs, she opened bottles of mead and handed one to Brynjolf.

"Where is Iona now?" he asked as he leaned against the door jamb between the kitchen and bedroom and took a long drink of the mead.

"She went to the barracks to get her things and resign from the guard."

"You know, in all the years I've lived in Riften, I've never been in Honeyside. Do you have enough room?"

"Considering that before I got the house I was basically homeless, aye, I have plenty of room."

"What about your house in Whiterun?"

"I don't stay there. I stop in every once in a while in the middle of the night to drop things off, but that's it. Been living in inns and Nightingale Hall. Honeyside is small, but I don't need much space. Iona has to go, though. I'll still probably never be home, and I already have one housecarl with nothing to do."

"Where?"

"Whiterun."

"You're Thane of Whiterun, too?"

"Mm-hmm. And working on becoming Thane of Hjaalmarch."

Bryn shook his head in bewilderment. "I don't even know what to say."

"Well, you'll probably have a week or two to think on it. I'll take Iona to the Blades' headquarters, and I have a package to drop off in Solitude while I'm out there."

"Hey, maybe you'll become Thane while you're there."

Sorscha chuckled. "I guess anything's possible. I think the jarl's steward likes me."

Brynjolf's eyes sparkled. "You amaze me. Do you know that?"

Sorscha stepped toward him impulsively and took his face in her hands, brushing her lips against his. He responded by wrapping his arms around her and kissing her deeply, hungrily, his mouth pressing insistently against hers. She threaded her fingers through his long hair, imprisoning him in her grasp, although he had no intention of going anywhere. He maneuvered her into the bedroom and lay down on the bed, pulling her with him. She didn't remember him putting his mead down, but his hands were empty as they played over her body. She ran her hands through his hair again as he worked to untie the laces of her bodice. She loved his hair. The tresses seemed to absorb firelight, bathing it in a dozen shades of red, gold and orange, almost as if it were aflame itself.

Then she made the mistake of looking into the other room.

The Shield of Ysgramor hung over the fireplace, gleaming. It was a beautiful shield stamped with a complicated design that looked vaguely like the face of a hawk. And it brought back memories she did _not_ want at the moment.

"Damn it!" she grumbled.

"What is it?"

Sorscha pushed Brynjolf away and sat up. "I can't do this."

"Why? What's wrong?" When Sorscha didn't respond, Brynjolf filled in the answer for her. "Farkas."

"I'm sorry."

He growled in frustration and launched himself from the bed, then turned and stood over her, red-faced. "You know, you started that, in case you forgot. You don't just start something like that and cut it off right in the middle."

The anger in Brynjolf's voice set something off in Sorscha, and tears welled in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she repeated, barely above a whisper.

Bryn's expression softened at the sight of her tears, and he sat down next to her and stroked her back. "No, _I'm_ sorry. I had no right to react that way."

"I shouldn't have teased you like that, but I don't want to ruin what we have by jumping into something I'm not ready for. You're my best friend, Bryn. I don't want to lose that."

He kissed her cheek. "Then that's how it'll stay, for now, at least. But Sorscha, it's been weeks. What you had with Farkas was brief. It's taking you longer to get over the relationship than it even lasted. You may not think so, but you deserve better than what you're putting yourself through. It's time to start moving on. Either that or go to him."

"I can't do that. Nothing's changed."

"Then think about what I said, love. I'm gonna go. Take care of yourself; be careful on the road. And come to the Flagon when you get back." He took her face in his hands and placed a gentle kiss on her lips, then got up and left Honeyside.

Sorscha retied the laces of her bodice, then lay down on the bed and wept, not knowing whether she was crying over Brynjolf or Farkas. Maybe both. But Bryn had been right; something had to change. She just didn't know if she was strong enough to change it.

* * *

Iona proved to be a very personable traveling companion, and Sorscha enjoyed the trip. She was also a good fighter, which came in handy because they were set upon by no less than three groups of bandits. They stayed over in Windhelm and Dawnstar, then made it to the Blue Palace in Solitude on the afternoon of their third day on the road. They asked for Sybille Stentor, the court wizard, for whom they had a package from Wylandria, Riften's court wizard. They were told she was asleep.

"She usually rises about eight p.m.," the guard told them. "Come back then."

"A court wizard who sleeps all day and gets up at night?" Sorscha asked suspiciously.

The guard shrugged. "They don't pay me to ask questions."

Sorscha and Iona went to the Winking Skeever and had a few drinks while waiting for Sybille to get up. It was mostly girl talk, comparing their likes and dislikes about men, particularly the ones in the bar and in Riften. Iona found Brynjolf just as attractive as Sorscha did, but she spoke of him with distaste. He was a rogue and a con man, and Iona had no use for him. Sorscha didn't bother telling the housecarl she was right; she just laughed and said there was more to him than there appeared. Of course, there was. He was also a master thief.

They went back to the palace that evening to find Sybille in her laboratory, dissecting what looked remotely like a small skeever.

"Sybille," Sorscha said, "I have a delivery for you from Wylandria in Riften."

"Ah, good," said Sybille, looking up with a grin that looked more like a sneer than a smile. She was young for a court wizard, even younger than Sorscha, and very pretty, but she looked cold, even hard. She took the package from Sorscha, set it on the table, and unwrapped it. Inside was a box filled with a green, gooey substance.

"What is that?" Iona asked.

Sybille raised her head quickly and glared Iona in the eye. "Servants shouldn't ask questions they have no business asking." She turned to Sorscha. "Do tell Wylandria thank you, and ask her to please not keep me waiting so long next time."

"Yes, milady," Sorscha said.

The wizard looked Sorscha over speculatively, then said, "You're a fighter, no? Are you looking for work, by any chance?"

"Possibly. Do you need something?"

"What do you know about vampires?"

Sorscha shrugged. "They drink blood; they're weaker in the daytime."

Sybille smiled with amusement. "That's all you know?"

"That and they die easily with a flaming arrow."

"We're having a vampire problem. There's a nest at Pinemoon Cave. If you'll get rid of them for me, I'll see that you're well compensated."

Sorscha looked over to Iona who said, "I would be honored by the opportunity to fight alongside you again, Thane."

"Then it's settled," said Sybille. "Return to me when the job is complete."

* * *

Pinemoon Cave was your standard grotto, complete with cobwebs, mushrooms, and creepy crawlies. The vampires and their pet wolves were easy to take care of, although the master vampire did hit Sorscha with a spell she had never seen before. The spell covered her with some sort of red light before dissipating into nothing, but she seemed to suffer no ill effects other than some temporary nausea. She and Iona were back at the Blue Palace within a day.

"The problem is taken care of," Sorscha told Sybille Stentor.

"Excellent. You've done me a service." Sybille gave her several hundred gold as compensation, which she split with Iona. The wizard raised an eyebrow as she watched the exchange. "She shares."

"Iona killed just as many vampires as I did."

"Of course she did." The wizard studied Sorscha closely, as if she were looking for something.

"Um, is there a problem?" Sorscha asked her.

Sybille gave her a cold smile. "None at all. Again, I thank you. If you ever need anything from me, child, you know where to find me."

As they left the palace and walked into the chilly night air of Solitude, Iona said, "That was a very strange woman."

Sorscha nodded. "I don't know about you, but she kind of made my skin crawl."

"Oh, yes."

* * *

Sorscha and Iona traveled all night, and after dealing with more Forsworn than they ever cared to see again, they arrived at the Sky Haven Temple just before sunset the next day. They found Delphine, the acting Grandmaster of the Blades, sitting at the long table in front of Alduin's Wall, reading. Iona gawked at the giant fresco, which depicted the reign and defeat of Alduin, the fabled dragon who had mysteriously reappeared, attacked Helgen, and begun raising dragons from the dead all over Skyrim.

"I brought you a recruit," Sorscha said. "This is Iona."

Delphine looked carefully at Sorscha, her brow furrowed. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"Aye. Why?"

"You're very pale."

Sorscha shrugged. "Hmm, I don't know. I feel fine."

"Very well. Iona, do you know what you're doing here? This is a lifetime commitment. You'll give up your home and family in taking up this cause and vow to spend your life fighting dragons and defending the Dragonborn."

"Aye," said Iona, tearing her gaze away from the wall. "I'm ready to take the oath."

Delphine administered the oath, and Sorscha congratulated the new Blade. "It's dangerous," she said, "but it's very rewarding. I can't tell you how amazing it feels to actually kill a dragon."

"I would imagine it feels a bit different for you, though."

"I guess you're right. But soul capture or not, just the feeling that, 'by Shor, I've killed a dragon,' is unequaled. Good luck, my friend."

"Thank you."

"Will you stay the night?" Delphine asked.

"Aye, and then I'll set out in the morning. Can you direct me to a well or something? I'm simply dying of thirst."

* * *

Sorscha left the Sky Haven Temple the next morning and headed east. It didn't take long to realize something wasn't right. Traveling was difficult; it was as though Sorscha hadn't gotten enough rest the night before, even though she had slept for a good nine hours. Usually, she could go half a day or more, only having to stop long enough to relieve herself, but by noon she'd had to stop to rest twice. She actually found herself taking a mid-afternoon nap. When the sun set, she was overcome by an oppressive thirst.

"Oh, shit," she muttered.

Sybille Stentor had asked how much Sorscha knew about vampires, but when Sorscha had expressed her ignorance, the wizard hadn't bothered to enlighten her. Well, maybe she would now. Sorscha turned around and headed back to Solitude.

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC

4


	9. Chapter 9 Vampire

Searching for Memories IX

Vampire

Sybille Stentor lounged in an easy chair by the fireplace in her plush suite late the next afternoon, legs crossed, smiling as Sorscha in the chair next to her, telling her about the weakness and the thirst she was experiencing. Solitude's court wizard nodded slowly. "Tell me. Did any of the vampires in Pinemoon Cave cast a spell on you with a red light?"

"Aye."

"Then it would seem you've become a vampire."

"But I don't have fangs."

"You will. What day is it? The second? Third?"

Then Sorscha realized. "You've got to be kidding me. You're a vampire!"

"Well, of course, I am, dear. Do you think I've stayed this lovely so long by good, clean living? I sent you out to eliminate the competition."

"Competition? I would think there were enough humans to go around."

"Well, perhaps not _competition_, per se. It was more a mutual dislike, really."

"You sent me to take out an enemy, and I got turned into a vampire for my trouble?"

Sybille waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, it's not so bad. Just make sure you feed regularly, and nobody has to be the wiser. Get them when they're sleeping; it's easier that way. You needn't kill, you know. Are you married? A spouse or a lover makes an excellent source of regular blood." She got up and went to a bookshelf, retrieved a book and brought it to Sorscha. "A Calm spell. Read it; it will help you when you feed."

"Is there a cure?"

"Now, why would you want a cure?"

"Because I don't want to be a vampire!" Sorscha cried.

"Shh!" Sybille said, waving her arms wildly. She shrugged and said, "I'm afraid I can't help you, dear."

Sorscha snarled in frustration and stormed out of the wizard's suite. She went across town and rented her regular room at the Winking Skeever. Corpulus Vinius, the owner, had taken to just tossing her the room key when she walked up to the bar. She would often sit and have a glass of wine and a long chat with the Imperial, who loved to gossip even more than the city guards; or even Gullium-Ei, the Guild's Argonian fence, who kept a regular table at the Skeever. Today, however, she needed to think. She took the key and dropped ten septims on the counter, then went upstairs and locked her door.

The room was homey, larger than most, with a floor-to-ceiling bookcase separating the big, soft bed from a cozy sitting room furnished with easy chairs. Sorscha sat in one of the chairs, bringing her knees up and wrapping her arms around her legs. She laid her head on her knees and squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to cry over her predicament.

Being a werewolf had been easy. The sounds and scents could be intrusive, but she could go out in the wilderness and hunt to her heart's content, and she never had to touch a human. Aela had told her she could feed on humans to make her beast form last longer, but she had never been able to bring herself to do it. But now, she would _have_ to feed on them.

When she thought about it, Sorscha realized that on some level, being a vampire could be easy, too. She was good at hiding in the shadows, and truth be known, she was more comfortable at night. Even before she had become an agent of Nocturnal, shadow had been her friend. She was a thief. Though she didn't like to characterize it as such, she did make a living preying on the innocent. But taking a wealthy aristocrat's valuables was completely different from eating them.

The sun set. The light didn't really change all that much outside—the transition from day to night was gradual—but Sorscha knew the moment the sun sank below the horizon. The thirst came upon her suddenly, brutally, but tonight there was more. A tickling sensation in her gums caused her to get up and go to a mirror hanging on the wall across the room, just above a basin used for fresh wash water. She looked in the mirror and pushed her upper lip out of the way with a finger.

Aye, there they were. A brand-new set of shiny, pointy fangs.

Thirst plagued her, and it was only made worse by the smell of blood. Corpulus was bringing a guest to the room next to hers, and their scents were so seductive that she had to grip the wash basin to keep from losing control and rushing out into the hallway to attack them. Her mouth watered, and her fangs bit into her lip as she stood there, holding onto the basin as though her life depended on it, until the craving lessened. The thirst, the ache, the desire to tear into their throats were still there, but they decreased to a level where she could manage them, at least in the short term. But Sorscha knew there was no getting around it; her neighbor, who was just settling down in the next room, was dinner.

The Winking Skeever may have looked nicer than most of the other inns in Skyrim, but it wasn't really built any better. The walls, though whitewashed and hung with elaborate weavings, were still as thin as paper. Sorscha sat on her bed and listened to the man next door as he puttered around the room for the next several hours. When he went to bed, he didn't sleep right away, tossing and turning for a while instead. He finally started snoring a full six hours after Corpulus showed him to his room. Sorscha used the six hours to study the tome Sybille had given her, and she was ready with her new spell when she left her room. The hallway was empty, and she slipped into her neighbor's room unnoticed.

Her first meal was about forty years old, heavy set and balding. He was clean shaven, except for the stubble that had grown throughout the day. He had the red nose of a heavy drinker, thick lips, and bad acne, but she wasn't there to admire the view. Though she didn't really know what a Calm spell would do to help her feed on a sleeping victim, she cast it anyway. The man didn't even notice. He didn't notice, either, when she bared her fangs and bit into his throat.

Feeding as a werewolf had been exhilarating, heady, an assault to the senses. The flavor, the scent, even the texture of the blood and the meat was enhanced, and it had given her a feeling of almost godlike power. Sadly, feeding as a vampire was merely like eating. The blood was delicious, yes, warm and rich, but so was a good stew. It was disappointing. If she was going to be stuck like this for the next several hundred years, or however long a vampire lived, at least she could enjoy feeding.

As she went back to her room and lay on her bed, Sorscha thought of Sybille's words. She had asked if there was a cure, but the wizard hadn't really answered the question, only saying she couldn't help. Couldn't, or _wouldn't_? Maybe there _was _a cure, and Sybille had just neglected to tell her. But where would she look? Were there books on this type of thing? She had found all sorts of books on lycanthropy; surely there was information on vampirism. For now, though, all she wanted to do was go home. As a vampire she would be weaker during the day, so it would be better to travel at night. Thus, she got up, gathered her belongings, and left the Winking Skeever.

* * *

_Home_. When Sorscha opened the door to Honeyside forty-eight hours after leaving Solitude, she had to chuckle with amusement. She had only spent a couple of nights in the house, but it already felt like home. Or maybe it was Riften that felt like home. In any case, she was glad to be there. She had reluctantly stopped in Whiterun, the halfway point between the two cities, because she had needed to feed. But who to feed on? Well, if she had to victimize one of Whiterun's citizens in such a way, there was only one she could think of to do it guilt-free: Idolaf Battle-Born. Funny. Feeding on him was much more satisfying than the man in the Winking Skeever. Then again, picking his pocket was always more satisfying than normal, too. But now she had to feed again. It had been early the previous evening when she had bitten Idolaf, and the thirst was getting worse. She didn't want to think about what tomorrow would be like if she didn't feed.

In keeping with the idea of biting people she hated, Sorscha decided to head over to the bunkhouse and see if she could catch Haelga asleep. She was in luck; the common room was deserted, and the owner was snug in her bed, naked, her body curled around a pillow, happily dreaming of all the men she had bedded. Sorscha was in and out of the bunkhouse inside fifteen minutes.

Maybe she _could_ do this. She didn't really hurt anybody, and she could just pick people she didn't like.

No. She might not have been causing them permanent damage, but she was still hurting them. Violating them, reducing them to nothing more than cattle.

The moons shone overhead, and she had no interest in sleeping, so Sorscha went to the cistern to see what was going on in the Thieves' Guild. Most of her brothers in crime were asleep, but Brynjolf sat at the Guildmaster's desk, scribbling in a log book. She sat down across from him.

"You know," she said, "for a profession that relies on the shadows, these guys sure sleep a lot at night."

Brynjolf chuckled. "How was your trip?"

"I've had better ones," she admitted.

"Have some trouble?"

"You could say that. Bryn, what do you know about vampires?"

The smile on Brynjolf's handsome face dropped away. "Why do you ask?"

If there was anyone in the world Sorscha trusted, it was Brynjolf. She hoped that trust wasn't misplaced. She bared her fangs.

He stood up abruptly, knocking his chair over behind him. "By the Eight!" he cried. "Where did you get those?"

The question struck her as amusing, and Sorscha found herself giggling.

"You're laughing?" he asked incredulously.

"Bryn, sit down. Please." He righted the chair and sat down, then she said, "Did you know the court mage in Solitude is a vampire?"

"Can't say that I did."

"I didn't either until after this happened. She sent me to take out a rival vampire. _That's_ where I got the fangs."

"Let me see again." Sorscha showed him her teeth, and he peered at them curiously, even going so far as to reach across the desk and move her lip out of the way.

"You're taking all this very well," she said drily.

"I trust you," he said simply. "So what now?"

"I have to find a cure."

"I've heard of vampires being cured before. We'll find something."

"But where do we start?"

"Actually, I have an idea."

* * *

Nightingale Hall was deserted; Karliah was out of town setting up a heist, and Sorscha and Brynjolf had the cave to themselves. Since Karliah had moved in, it looked more like a home than a cave. She had put up decorations and filled shelves with dozens of books. She had even stocked a larder and set a dinner table. There were three place settings, one for each of the Nightingales. After all, no one else would ever be allowed in the cave. She had arranged a comfy sitting area around a small fire pit, and had placed three cots off to the side. Sorscha had made one of the cots her own and had actually stashed a few personal belongings in the nightstand next to it.

She took a moment to look at Karliah's books, but she found nothing relevant, so she accompanied Brynjolf to the portal that would take them to the Ebonmere. The Ebonmere was the conduit between Nirn and the Evergloam, which was the home of Nocturnal, the patron of the Nightingales and all thieves. It was Bryn's thought that if anyone would know how to cure vampirism, it would be Nocturnal, the Daedric Prince of night and darkness.

Brynjolf had never been to the Ebonmere, and he looked around with curiosity. Sorscha explained that the pool full of a thick, purplish-blue mist was the conduit from which Nocturnal would rise, and the three platforms surrounding the pool depicting phases of the moon were essentially pressure plates that he could stand on in order to choose one of the powers of Nocturnal. There were three choices: Agent of Stealth, in which the Nightingale could become invisible for two minutes; Agent of Strife, which in Sorscha's mind was an almost vampiric power of draining the opponent's life while bolstering his or her own; and Agent of Subterfuge, which would allow the Nightingale to have opponents fight each other. Bryn knew that power well; Mercer Frey had used it on him in Irkngthand and forced him to attack Karliah.

"Which did you choose?" he asked Sorscha.

"The Agent of Stealth, of course. The ability to become invisible is essential when sneaking in and out of houses and past bandits on the highway."

He considered it, then stepped on the half-moon.

"Why the Agent of Subterfuge?"

"Let's face it, lass, I don't do a lot of sneaking around in the shadows these days, but the ability to have enemies attack each other could come in right handy if I need to get out of a tight spot." He stepped off the platform and stood next to Sorscha. "Are you ready to do this?"

"Now is as good a time as any." She raised her hands in supplication and said, "Nocturnal, Mistress of Darkness and Shadow, hear me."

The mist in the Ebonmere began to churn and a figure rose out of the pool. The daedric prince had nondescript facial features, the kind you might not even notice if you walked past her on the street. She wore a hooded robe, which was open to her navel. A large, black bird sat on each shoulder. She regarded Sorscha. "Ah, my champion. Summoning me like a common dremora. You're looking a little worse for wear, Sorscha. Step in something you couldn't get out of?"

"Please, milady, if you know a cure for vampirism, could you point me in the right direction?"

"Out of the goodness of my heart, of course."

"I'll willingly offer whatever payment I can."

"I own your soul. What else could you offer me?"

"You'd have to tell me."

Nocturnal peered down at Sorscha, eyes narrowed. "You don't fear me."

Sorscha shrugged. "With all due respect, milady, having gone up against so many things trying to hurt or kill me in the last few months, I find talking to you quite the relief."

The daedric prince laughed heartily, and the birds flapped their wings and chirped with alarm. Sorscha and Brynjolf took a step back, not sure how to react to such an unexpected reaction.

"There is one thing you can do for me, little one," Nocturnal said when she recovered. "There is a dragon burial mound in Eastmarch, at the northern end of the Aalto. On the rock formation next to the mound, you will find a latch that opens a hidden door. Open the door and enter the cave, where you will find a wizard and a priest who have something of mine."

She held out her arms, and the birds hopped to her hands and eyed Sorscha and Brynjolf. "I will tell you a secret about myself, though I may cause you to forget it later. You may not believe I am sentimental, but the Nightingales mean very much to me. Each of the birds on my hands represents one of you. As you can see, one of them—the one that represents you, Sorscha—is missing. Retrieve my nightingale, and I will tell you how to remove your curse."

The tale of the birds barely registered with Sorscha as her ears rang with Nocturnal's profession that she could steal her memories. "You can make me forget?" she asked apprehensively.

"No, little one, I did not take your memories, and I cannot restore them. But I know who took them, and be assured that when the time is right, you will be made aware. For now, it must be this way. You have a destiny to fulfill, and knowledge of your past would only cloud your judgment."

"What am I supposed to do?"

Nocturnal raised an eyebrow and remained silent.

_Destiny_.Sorscha hated that word, especially when she realized she had very little control over it. She felt like a marionette, a good little automaton moving her arms and legs in response to the puppet master's whim. She wanted to fight, rebel, but it wouldn't do any good. Someone, though she didn't remember who, had once told her that the path one took to avoid their destiny often led them right to it. At this point, there was nothing to do but let it play out.

She sighed with resignation. "Fine. Anything else I should know?"

"You mustn't kill the wizard or the priest unless your own life depends on it. They have destinies as well. Simply sneak into the cave, free the nightingale, and return to me. There is no need to cage her; she will follow you."

"It will be done, milady."

Nocturnal looked over at Brynjolf, who had watched the exchange in silence. "Cat got your tongue, Brynjolf? I would have expected you to have more to say."

"I figured this was Sorscha's conversation, milady."

She turned back to Sorscha and said, "I will be waiting." Then she sank back into the Ebonmere.

"Okay, then," said Bryn. "Shall we go?"

"Bryn, you can't go with me."

Brynjolf glared at her. "If you say it's too dangerous, I'm picking you up and carrying you there on my back."

Sorscha rolled her eyes and sighed. "Okay, you can go. But when I go in to get the bird, you stay outside."

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC

5


	10. Chapter 10 Once Again to the Aalto

Searching for Memories 10

Again to the Aalto

It was late afternoon by the time Sorscha and Brynjolf left Riften, and severe storms slowed them down. They braved the weather as best they could, but they had to take shelter several times against strong winds and sheets of rain that pelted them like icy needles. By the time they reached the Aalto, it was morning. The storms had passed, and a glaring sun was coming up on the eastern horizon.

"I thought our luck was supposed to get _better_ after we returned the Skeleton Key," Sorscha muttered as they climbed the rise to the table-and-chairs rock formation to rest, eat, and dry out a bit. As she shared soggy bread and cheese with Brynjolf, she told him about her recent discovery of the rocks, the memories from her childhood, and her disappointment at Darkwater Crossing.

"Have you been to Kynesgrove?" he asked her when she told him Anneke had suggested checking the village.

"Twice. The first time, there was a dragon, so I didn't bother asking. The second, they acted as though they didn't remember me, but I got the feeling they did."

"How so?"

She placed a piece of cheese in her mouth and grimaced. Eider cheese was her favorite food, but this morning it tasted bitter and stale. Sorscha wondered if it was the rain or if her palate was changing in favor of more vampiric tastes. It would be a damn shame never to be able to eat cheese again. "The way they looked at me—one or two of them, anyway—I could tell they recognized me. They were very nice, even friendly, but they were hiding something, and I know it."

"So they didn't tell you anything?"

Sorscha shook her head. "I'm going back, though, and I'm going to try to convince them to help me. The man was very fond of his mead. Maybe I can get him drunk and loosen his tongue a little bit."

When they finished eating and started back on their way, fatigue began to set in. The sun leached her energy and burned her skin. According to Brynjolf, the weather was actually quite cool, but as far as Sorscha was concerned, they might as well be traversing the deserts of Elsweyr.

They located the dragon mound just before noon, and they assumed the rocky tor nearby housed the cave they were looking for. It took them a while to find the hidden latch, which was tucked into a tight nook behind a small outcropping of rock. Sorscha pulled the latch, and part of the rock slid down into a gap in the ground much like dragon claw doors did, revealing a brightly-lit tunnel leading down into the caverns below.

"Wait here," Sorscha told Brynjolf.

"If you're not back in thirty minutes, I'm coming in after you."

"Fair enough." She kissed him on the cheek, but he turned into the kiss. Sorscha reached up and ran her hands through his hair as she opened her mouth to his. "You're not helping," she said softly when they parted.

"I didn't say I'd make it easy to stay just friends."

She gave him another quick kiss then stepped inside. Shortly after she entered the cave, the door slid back into place. Sorscha heard Brynjolf swear just before the cave sealed itself. Torches burned every few yards, making sneaking difficult, but there was no one patrolling the halls anyway. She followed a ramp downward until she was well underground. It was darker down here, providing more shadows, but there were few rooms off the narrow passage, so if someone came along, there would still be no place to hide. She passed through a chamber with an arcane enchanter on one wall and an altar on another. The altar was constructed of what looked like dragon scales, and a stone dragon's head made up the backdrop. The eyes of the sculpture stared at her balefully, sending chills down her spine. Flowers were laid out on the altar, as well as a briar heart and what looked like a human organ, maybe a lung. Sorscha shuddered at the grisly tableau and escaped quickly through the next door.

Somewhere ahead, a man grumbled, "Stupid priest couldn't tell a dragon from an Argonian." Sorscha stopped and pressed herself against the wall. There were footsteps, then an odd clicking noise, and the cave fell silent. Sorscha began moving again.

She started to enter a doorway but stopped abruptly. The room was perfectly square, as was the doorway. The walls were bare, and a table and one chair were the only furnishings. A man sat at the table, staring into the biggest soul gem Sorscha had ever seen. The pinkish aura of the soul gem provided the only illumination, but the room was small enough that no other light was necessary. The man was a Nord, perhaps thirty years old, golden haired, clean shaven. The right side of his face was handsome, but a wide scar spoiled the left side and deformed his mouth. He wore blue priest's robes and a large, gold ring. The priest was facing the door, but he didn't seem to notice her. He was in some sort of trance, mesmerized by the giant gem, although when Sorscha entered the room, an elated smile crossed his face. The nightingale sat on a perch in a corner behind the priest. She didn't look like the birds on Nocturnal's shoulders; she was just an ordinary songbird, smaller than the ones in the Ebonmere, with brown feathers and a grayish breast. When she saw Sorscha, she flew to her, landing on her shoulder and chirping joyfully. The priest still did not look up.

Sorscha backed out of the room, whispering to the nightingale to be quiet. She made her way back through the tunnels, thinking that rescuing the bird had been too easy and expecting something to go wrong at any moment. It finally happened in the altar room. She rounded the corner to find the mage leaning over the arcane enchanter, fiddling with some sort of dwemer contraption. He was a Breton, short, old, and feeble, with snow-white hair and a ragged beard that hung to the table. A scar similar to that of the priest marred his face as well. He smelled as though he hadn't had a bath or changed his robes in a week. The old mage hadn't seen her, but getting by him was going to be tough. The room was small enough that he would almost be able to reach out and touch her as she snuck by him. That, along with the fact that she couldn't rely on the nightingale to keep quiet, was going to make getting through the room very tricky. She invoked the Shadowcloak of Nocturnal, slipping into invisibility, but the Shadowcloak would do nothing to hide the bird. If the mage looked up, he would simply see the nightingale floating through the air, assuming he couldn't see through the Shadowcloak altogether. She knew nothing about what kind of magic he practiced and had no clue what he could do.

Sorscha rolled her eyes in annoyance. She didn't know what she was getting so worked up about. This was what she did. She'd have no trouble getting past this man; she just needed to get on with it before her Shadowcloak wore off. Still, she trembled as she crouched and took a step into the room. The nightingale remained utterly silent as Sorscha crept through the room with slow, easy steps. Of course, she would be quiet. She was the familiar of Nocturnal.

When Sorscha was about halfway through the room, the mage turned around. She stood stock still as he approached her, stepped past her, and went to the altar, where he retrieved the lung. He turned and shuffled back across the room, his stench trailing in his wake, and tossed the lung on the arcane enchanter as if it were a slab of beef on a butcher's block.

_A dwarven mechanism and a human lung,_ Sorscha thought to herself. _That must be quite a spell._

She started moving again, and though the Shadowcloak wore off before she reached the opposite door, she managed to get through the room unnoticed. When she was confident that she was far enough away not to be heard, Sorscha sank to the floor, gasping, her heart hammering as the tension seeped from her muscles. Why had she gotten so worried over sneaking past the mage? She had done the same thing dozens of times and never even broke a sweat. Perhaps it was because it was daytime. Maybe the sun weakened her even if it wasn't beating down on her. In any case, it was with great relief that she pulled the lever of the outside door and found Brynjolf leaning against the rock outside.

"How'd it go?"

Sorscha told him about the mage and her anxiety. "Other than that, it was incredibly easy. Maybe that's why I got so anxious over the mage. Something just doesn't add up. I got the idea that the priest knew I was there. Even if he didn't see me, he had to know when the nightingale flew to my shoulder. Bryn, I think he let me get away."

"Well, let's not overanalyze it too much. Let's just get out of here."

The trip back to Nightingale Hall was hard on Sorscha. The afternoon sun beat down harshly, weakening and sickening her. She hadn't fed since Haelga, and the thirst was practically unbearable, but she persevered as best she could. Travel was easier after the sun went down, but the thirst still made for an arduous journey. They arrived at Nightingale Hall just before dawn the next morning.

As Nocturnal had promised, the bird stayed with Sorscha all the way back, sometimes riding on her shoulder and flying overhead at other times. When they arrived in the sanctuary and Nocturnal appeared, the nightingale chirped at Sorscha and then flew to the arm of her lady, where she tripled in size and absorbed the shadows until her feathers were coal black. She peeped again, not the cheery song of the nightingale but a soulful whistle.

"She thanks you," said Nocturnal.

"The cure, milady?" Sorscha asked, exhausted, starving, and not in the mood for chitchat.

"There is a wizard in Morthal by the name of Falion. Take him a filled black soul gem, and he can cure your vampirism."

"That's it?"

"It may sound simple, but it will not be easy, I assure you. By the way, Sybille Stentor lied to you. Sanguinare vampiris is a disease that, if not treated, will progress to vampirism, but it does not do so for three days. A god's blessing or a potion to cure disease will heal you before the curse takes over. Go now, and try to stay out of trouble." She disappeared into the pool.

"That blood-sucking bitch!" Sorscha cried. "She knew all along that I didn't know a potion would cure me, and she didn't say anything. I may have to kill her just on principle." As they stepped through the portal back into Nightingale Hall, she said, "Well, I guess I'm off to Morthal."

"Lass, you need to feed," said Brynjolf. "You look terrible. You don't even look like yourself."

Sorscha found a mirror in the living area and studied her reflection. Brynjolf was right; she had completely changed. All the color had faded from her cheeks, leaving a pale, ashen hue, and her eyes were sunken and feral red. Her hair even looked different, darker, stringy. "I should have found someone when we went through Shor's Stone, but I don't always stop to eat while I'm on the road. I just wanted to get home and get this over with. I'll have to wait here 'til tonight. I can't walk through Riften like this; it's pretty obvious what I am."

"Feed from me," Brynjolf suggested.

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"I don't think it's a good idea," she said dubiously. "Sybille never said I _couldn't_ feed while you're awake, but Bryn, it's bound to hurt."

"You said you had a calming spell. Use that, and I'll be okay." He took her hand and led her to her cot, then sat down and pulled her onto his lap. "It's all right, love."

His words said it was okay, but his tone of voice and the rapid pounding of his heart said he was terrified. But Sorscha hadn't fed in days, nighttime was a long way off, and the vein in his neck throbbed invitingly.

"Lie down," she said, climbing off his lap. He lay on the cot, and she prepared the Calm spell and released the soothing light over him. Brynjolf relaxed and closed his eyes, and Sorscha knelt before him and bit into his throat.

He gasped with pain and wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her shoulders, but didn't fight her, for which she was glad because she couldn't have broken free from him if she had tried. She hadn't waited so long to feed before, and the sensations now were very different from when she was in the early stages. Her head swam, and warmth spread over her body as Brynjolf's essence nourished her. It still didn't match the feelings she'd had when she'd fed as a werewolf, but it was much more satisfying than a good stew.

Sorscha drank what she needed and disengaged, and Brynjolf sat up. He swooned a bit, and Sorscha reached out to steady him.

"Well, that was different," he mused, touching the two holes her teeth had made in his neck and pulling his fingers black to look at the blood.

"I'm sorry I hurt you."

He shrugged. "It didn't hurt as badly as I expected. You look much better now."

"Aye, but _you_ look pale."

"Nah, I'm fine."

"Thank you, Bryn."

He got up, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet. "Let's get back to the Guild and see of anything needs to be taken care of before we head for Morthal."

"No, I need to do this one alone. It's not just Morthal; it's the soul gem. First I have to _find_ one, and then there's only one way to fill it."

"Kill a human."

"Well, not just a human. Man, mer, even a vampire would work. Maybe I _will_ go back and kill Sybille."

Brynjolf eyed her for a moment, and then nodded. "Very well. Just take care of yourself."

Sorscha stopped at Honeyside to rest and pick up a bow that would trap a soul. She climbed into her bed, pulled the covers up over her head, and drifted off immediately. No dragons plagued her with nightmares today; her sleep was deep and dreamless. She awoke after dark, refreshed and ready to travel. She wanted to wash up but didn't want to take the time to haul and warm enough water for a bath, so a quick rinsing off would have to do. She drew some water from the lake and brought it up to the kitchen, where she undressed and cleaned herself with a wet rag. The water wasn't as cold as she expected, and then she realized: _she_ was cold. She was undead, right up there with the skeletons and the draugr. The very thought made her cringe.

Deciding to try Enthir first, Sorscha headed north toward Winterhold. The wood elf had acted as a fence for the Guild since he had helped her and Karliah translate Gallus's journal, and he was known for being able to obtain hard-to-find items. If he didn't have a black soul gem, he might know where Sorscha could get one. Once she got one, then she would have to go about finding someone to kill.

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC

4


	11. Chapter 11 Help from Divine and Daedra

Searching for Memories 11

Help from Divine and Daedra

After all the trouble to get the soul gem, the ritual to cure Sorscha's vampirism had been so simple, it was almost disappointing; but it had given the term, "I feel like a human being again," a whole new meaning. She felt normal, good, and hungry. For cheese. There was still the matter of finding her identity, and with her renewed humanity, she was looking forward to resuming her search.

She couldn't help feeling guilty, however. A necromancer attempting to kill her had generously provided his soul for the gem that would be used to cure her vampirism, and she didn't feel guilty about that. But getting the gem from Enthir to begin with, finding and killing the necromancers, and then making her way to Morthal had taken days; and she'd had to feed. Funny how stealing didn't bother her, but she found taking a victim's blood abominable. They were so helpless, lying there asleep while she drained the life from their bodies. Even Rolff, the ass in Windhelm who had nothing better to do than harass the dark elves, didn't deserve being molested like that. She had to find a way to make up for it, to give something back. Fortunately, she had a project on her to-do list that would help in that regard.

Sorscha had recently done a few jobs for Dinya Balu, a priestess of Mara at the temple in Riften. It was her mission to unite lovers who were having trouble getting together on their own, and Sorscha had been assisting her in that quest. She had already helped Klimmek, a friend of hers from Ivarstead, find the courage to keep his love from marrying another; and Calcelmo, the crotchety court mage in Markarth, who was in love with the jarl's housecarl. It was an odd match, but it worked, and now they were happy. She guessed Calcelmo wasn't as crotchety these days. The latest job Dinya had given her was a little different. Two spirits roamed the tundra of Whiterun near Gjukar's Monument, bound to this world while searching for each other. Sorscha was sent to help bring them together so they could go to their rest. Thus, she donned an amulet of Mara that Dinya had given her so she could see the ghosts and set out for Whiterun Hold.

Gjukar's Monument consisted of a towering pillar topped with the head of an eagle and surrounded by five smaller pillars. The whole configuration was tucked into a crescent of massive boulders in the center of a wide valley. From a distance, Sorscha could see a bluish mist floating around the base of the monument, and as she approached, the specter coalesced into the shape of a woman. The spirit of Ruki roamed throughout the crescent of boulders, calling for her husband Fenrig, who had reportedly been killed on the battlefield. When she spotted Sorscha, she pleaded for help.

"He must be here somewhere," she said in an eerie, ethereal voice as she searched the bodies for her mate.

"Of course, I'll help you," Sorscha replied, although she didn't see any bodies. Then again, she wasn't looking for a body anyway; she was looking for a ghost. She explored the immediate area and found nothing, so she started wandering out on the tundra. A nearby shrine to Zenithar which was built into a toppled fort proved empty. From there, however, she could see another shrine, two columns jutting toward the sky at the base of a foothill, practically screaming for her attention. On closer inspection, Sorscha found that the shrine was to Stendarr, the god of mercy, although his priests didn't seem to know the meaning of the word. She just couldn't follow a religion whose priests used the catch phrase, "Walk always in the light or we will drag you to it." Still, a shrine seemed like a good place to find a spirit, so Sorscha investigated the grounds around it. As the sun set, she felt compelled to search around the base of the small mountain. On the other side was another valley, at the center of which rested a crystal-clear lake that was the source of a river that ran north through Haafingar and eventually spilled into the Sea of Ghosts. There was also a dragon.

She drew her bow and shot at the scaly monstrosity as it Shouted, raining fire over Sorscha and making her scream in pain and rage. She was thankful she wasn't a vampire anymore, because such a blast would have killed her. "You're gonna have to do better than that, you overgrown chicken!"

"You will die for that!" the dragon shouted in the Nordic language, and he dropped to the ground a hundred yards away.

Sorscha dropped her bow, drew her swords—the newest one being Dragonbane, borrowed from the Blades and specially enchanted to kill dragons—and darted toward the wyrm. He spit fire again as she approached, and she managed to dodge the blaze and only get a bit singed. She ducked under a wing and sliced at his ribs with one blade, then jabbed the other deeply into its belly. The dragon screamed and swung around, snapping at her, but she was too far back. As he turned, she moved with him, worrying at the wound she had already made as the dragon struggled to reach her.

He slapped at her with a wing, and Sorscha fell and dropped her flaming sword, giving the beast time to turn and snap at her again. His teeth missed, but he stepped on the sword, leaving her only with Dragonbane. That was okay. She'd killed dragons with one blade before, and this one was already near death. As he struggled to turn again, Sorscha slipped back under his wing and made one final thrust into his abdomen. He cried his last and collapsed, and Sorscha had to scramble out of the way to avoid being crushed.

While the dragon disintegrated, Sorscha took stock. Her armor was shredded, and her arms and torso stung as angry blisters rose where the dragon had burned her. Unfortunately, the armor would have to wait until she got to town, but she could do something about the burns now. She barely noticed the warmth and presence of the soul as it entered her body; she was too busy digging in her pack for a healing potion. She drank the potion, retrieved her weapons, and pulled a bone and scale from the dragon's body, as well as nearly 100 gold pieces. This dragon had eaten someone with money.

She set out again, following her instincts—or maybe it was the Divines—which told her to continue around the edge of the lake. She found the ghost in an inlet on the other side, the lights of Dragonsreach gleaming far in the distance. He stood at the edge of the water, watching the dragonflies flit about on the surface. Sorscha wondered how many hundreds of dragonflies he'd seen over the years.

"Fenrig?" she said softly.

The misty figure looked up at her. "How do you know me?"

"I was sent by Ruki. She's searching for you nearby."

"Why? Is something wrong? Why would she come here?"

It was evident that Fenrig didn't realize he was dead, and Sorscha didn't tell him. She simply bid him to follow her, and she led him back to the monument where Ruki waited. Sorscha was all but forgotten as they embraced and their spirits ascended into the sky. They looked around in confusion for a moment but then simply rejoiced at their reunion.

Sorscha missed Farkas more than ever as she watched Ruki and Fenrig hold each other. Acting as an agent of Mara was difficult when one didn't have love of their own. All this joy, all these lovers united, and Sorscha was alone. Whiterun was close, and she considered stopping in. She wouldn't even have to speak to Farkas; it was nighttime and she could hide at the Skyforge in the hope that he would be out in the courtyard.

No. She had made her choice, and seeing Farkas—or going and not getting to see him—would only make things worse. Better to head back to Riften and try to get over it. Brynjolf had made it pretty clear that he wanted her, although she didn't know the extent of his feelings. From what she had seen, he slept around a lot, and she couldn't discount the possibility that, even though they were friends, she would be just another notch in his bedpost. Then again, that might not be such a bad thing, as long as she kept her eyes open.

Sorscha took the south road through Falkreath. The road passed through Helgen, but she wasn't ready to see the village where she had come so close to death, so she went into the woods to skirt around it. The first part of the trip was easy—no bandits, no wild animals, no dragons. She was grateful, because she didn't think her armor would hold up to another attack. In the wee hours of the morning, however, just after she entered The Rift, she was accosted by two vampires.

It was odd that they were on the road like that; she had never encountered vampires out in the open. They holed up in caves, and if they were out and about, they were doing their best to pass for human. These two were in the most advanced stage of the disease, red eyed and fangs bared, not making any attempt to hide what they were. A beautiful, statuesque Nord in armor Sorscha had never seen before waved the dreaded handful of red light at her, but Sorscha drew an arrow and shot her between the eyes before she had a chance to release the _sanguinare vampiris _disease. The other, a tiny Breton wearing similar clothing, stepped in too close to get off a good shot and swung a greatsword at her. The sword was almost as big as the vampire, but she managed it admirably. Sorscha dropped her bow and ducked out of the way, but the blade sliced across her side. It barely cut her skin, but it left a huge tear in her already weak armor. Sorscha brought her leg up and threw a kick at the vampire's abdomen, making her double over with a painful cry and giving Sorscha the second she needed to draw the flaming sword.

The vampire straightened back up and stretched out her hand. "Hold still, pretty girl," she purred.

"Oh, no!" said Sorscha. "Don't even think about it."

She stopped, taken aback, then lowered her hand and gave Sorscha an amused smile.

"Look, I just got cured of the damned disease, and I don't want it again, so just go on and kill me instead, all right?"

"Very well." The vampire raised her greatsword, but before she had the chance to bring it down, Sorscha thrust the blade between her ribs. Flames spread across her body, and blood spewed from her mouth as she regarded Sorscha with confusion. Then the red light left her eyes and she dropped to the ground.

The first thing Sorscha did was reach into her pack for a potion that would cure disease and down it in several large gulps. She didn't think they had given her the virus, but she wasn't going to take any chances. Afterward, she set about looting the bodies. She hadn't stolen an enemy's clothes in quite a while; seeing Kodlak stripped of his armor had broken her of that habit. But she needed it now, and the tall Nord seemed to be about her size. The armor was beautiful. It was form-fitting red leather with a kind of spider-web design sewn into the front panel. The top worked into a high neck and scale-type shoulder protection. The belt, skirt, and bracers were also red leather, but the sleeves and slacks were black. The only drawback was that the bustier top left the torso exposed, but Sorscha was very good a guarding her front, so it was a small consideration. She wasted no time stripping the vampire's armor and putting it on. She stuffed the Nightingale armor in her pack in the hope that it could be salvaged. If not, maybe the shrine in Nightingale Hall would cough up another set for her.

The Breton had a messenger's pack. They had evidently killed a courier and taken all of his possessions, including people's valuable letters. With the pack, Sorscha saw another opportunity to give back. There were five letters in the pouch, and she resolved to get them to their owners. When she looked at the addresses, she smiled. It seemed the Divines were still helping her out. Or maybe Nocturnal, because finding _these_ vampires with _this_ pack was exceptionally lucky. Three of the letters were for Falkreath and one was for Riverwood, which she had already passed, but it would be no trouble to stop there the next time she headed west. One, however, was for Riften. Specifically, it was for Rune.

Sorscha couldn't resist the urge to open the letter. _Better to apologize than ask permission_, she thought as she broke the seal and read the neatly penned script.

_Rune,_

_I am happy to say this letter brings good news. During my search in Cyrodiil, I discovered a book of ancient languages, in which I found the runes inscribed on your stone. Using the simple replacement alphabet, I translated them to mean "TORRIUS."_

_I discussed the book with the librarian, who told me the language had once been used by the Dark Brotherhood and Thieves' Guild in Cyrodiil to send encoded messages. It is unclear whether Torrius is a given name or a surname, but I now have a new direction in which to look._

_If the name is associated with the Dark Brotherhood, this may be another dead end. As you know, the Dark Brotherhood no longer exists in Cyrodiil. However, the Thieves' Guild, however does still operate, so I will begin there and keep you informed of any further progress I make._

_Athel Newberry_

Sorscha fairly squealed with glee. Maybe it _was_ Nocturnal who guided her. With her spirits boosted, she stuffed Rune's letter, along with the others, into her pack, finished looting the vampires' bodies, and got back on the road to Riften.

She got into town the next afternoon. She stopped at Honeyside to unload the dragon bone and scale and pick up the void salts Balimund would need to repair the tattered Nightingale armor, slipped into a dress, and then headed for the market district.

"What did you do?" the smith asked, looking over the damaged armor critically.

"It wasn't me. It was a dragon and a couple of vampires."

Balimund looked up at her curiously. "Vampires, eh? Interesting."

Sorscha would have thought he'd find the dragon more interesting. "Can you fix this?"

"Do you have void salts?" She handed over a small burlap sack filled with the magical powder, and he said, "Fixing this type of armor is not my strength, but I'll do my best."

"_You're_ the best, Balimund." She placed a kiss on his ruddy cheek and turned away from the forge. Brynjolf was leaning on his counter in the circular marketplace, chatting up a pretty adventurer, and Sorscha started to walk by, but when he saw her, he waved her over. The woman glared at Sorscha and wandered away.

"Sorry about that," Sorscha said.

"She'll be back. I'm glad to see you're looking human again."

"Thank the gods."

"No trouble, then?"

"Bryn, there's _always_ trouble. You know that. But I'm in one piece."

Brynjolf started to say something but closed his mouth.

"What's wrong?" she asked him.

"Wrong?" Brynjolf shrugged. "I'll let you decide if it's wrong. But first, I need to tell you something, and this isn't easy for me to say, so be kind. A while back, you said I was your best friend."

"Aye," Sorscha said slowly, wondering where the conversation was going.

"Just know that you're mine, too," he said awkwardly, "and that will not change. Even with what happened between us—or what _might_ have happened—there will be no hard feelings. Ever."

The words were coming out of Brynjolf's mouth, but they didn't sound like him. They were anxious, uncertain, and rehearsed. He had struggled with what he was going to say, and he still did a poor job of it. "Okay, Bryn, you're scaring me. What is going on?"

"There's a surprise waiting for you in the Flagon."

"A surprise? What is it?"

"It's a surprise," he said with a raised eyebrow.

"All right, I'll head downstairs, then." She crossed the marketplace, exchanged sneers with Grelka, Skyrim's bitchiest merchant, and descended the stairs to Riften's lower level and the Ratway.

What in Oblivion had gotten Brynjolf so worked up? This silver-tongued master thief, who'd never been at a loss for words in his life, had trouble expressing himself. And he didn't know if she would think something was wrong? How could it _not_ be wrong? Whatever the surprise was, it was so significant that it had thrown Bryn for a loop. That fact alone made Sorscha hesitate at the door to the Ragged Flagon.

She finally found the nerve to push the door open and stepped into the big, round hall, which stood directly below the marketplace. Four bays on the west end of the circle stood empty, waiting for the day the Flagon would have enough traffic to support businesses again. Across a runoff tank full of surprisingly clean water stood the Ragged Flagon, the tavern that was home to the Thieves' Guild. The Flagon had seen better days, and it was rare to see anyone there who wasn't in the Guild. From the door, she could see Tonilia, an attractive Redguard who was the Guild's fence, sitting in her regular spot on a deck out over the tank, along with a robed individual who was unfamiliar. The bouncer, a dour, hard-faced Imperial who went by the name of Dirge, stood at the entrance. Otherwise, Sorscha couldn't recognize any of the half-dozen figures milling around the dimly lit pub. She approached Dirge, who glared down at her and actually growled.

"Did you just growl at me?" she asked him. Then she noticed. The left side of the bouncer's face was covered with an angry bruise. "What happened to you?"

Dirge pointed a thumb at the room behind him. "_He_ happened. He's been here for three days, said he wouldn't leave 'til he talked to you. When I tried to throw him out, he attacked me. Only reason he's still breathin' is 'cause Bryn wouldn't let me kill him."

Sorscha looked past Dirge to see an armored Nord sitting at the bar, playing a dice game with Delvin. She gasped, her heart soaring at the sight of him. It was Farkas.

"Oh, sweet Mara," she said as she ran to the bar. When he saw her, Farkas slid off the stool. He placed his hands on her waist, and she rested hers on his shoulders. "Wolf, what are you doing here?" she asked.

He gazed at her with those earnest, forthright, pale-blue eyes which, in the torchlight of the Flagon, looked almost transparent, and said, "I came for you."

_It wasn't right. She didn't deserve him. Her life was too dangerous for romance. If they entered into a relationship and she was killed by a dragon or some such, he would be devastated. She still didn't know who she was_. Blah, blah, blah.

Screw it.

With tears welling in her eyes, Sorscha took Farkas's face in her hands and covered it with kisses. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Vekel hand Delvin a small pile of gold.

"Told you," Del said smugly.

Lovely. They had been betting on how she would react when she came in and found Farkas waiting for her. Sorscha would deal with them later. For now, she didn't care.

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC

5


	12. Chapter 12 Little Conversations

Searching for Memories 12

Little Conversations

_Go to bed. Go directly to bed. Do not pass GO. Do not collect 200 septims._

Sorscha barely took time to glare at Delvin and Vekel before taking Farkas's hand and leading him from the Flagon. There was only one place she wanted to be right now.

Farkas was impressed with Honeyside, and he was amused by the fact that she owned two chickens, whom she had affectionately named Delvin and Vex. Sorscha promised to give him a tour later, but at the moment she had other things on her mind. As soon as they were inside the house, she kissed him and pulled him toward the bedroom. Taking his armor off seemed to take an eternity, but they finally lay naked on the bed in each other's arms. They made love all afternoon and into the evening, and late in the night, spent at last, Sorscha laid her head on his chest and, with Farkas's arms around her, drifted off to sleep.

* * *

"Yol toor shul!"

_The black dragon had a name now, but knowing him didn't make him less terrifying. Her heart hammered and her breath caught in her throat as the blisters raised on her arms and face. She drew an arrow and shot at him, but he merely laughed at her._

Sorscha awoke with a gasp and sat straight up in bed, trembling and panting. A gentle hand caressing her back calmed her instantly.

"Still having bad dreams?" Farkas asked sleepily.

She nodded and settled back down in his arms. "Not every night, but they still come. I know his name now. It's Alduin. The World Eater."

"What does that mean?"

"He was supposedly defeated long ago, but lore told that he would return and destroy the world."

"How can one dragon destroy the world?"

"I don't know yet. But I'm the only one who can stop him."

"What do you need to do?"

"I need to go back to High Hrothgar. The Blades told me there's a Shout that might be able to defeat him, and I'm hoping the Greybeards can help me."

Farkas lay quietly for a while, holding her and stroking her hair, and Sorscha almost went back to sleep. "Sorscha?" he said, rousing her again.

"Hmm?"

"Why did you leave?"

She should have known he would ask. But how to answer? Even _she_ didn't understand at the moment. "There's just so much," she replied with a sigh. "I thought you deserved better."

"Better than you? There's no such thing. I already knew you were Dragonborn, and I accepted that. I know about the Thieves' Guild, and I've accepted that. I know about the Dark Brotherhood" –

Sorscha propped up on an elbow. "What?"

"Aren't you in the Dark Brotherhood, too?"

"Why would you even think that?"

"Adrianne said a man was looking for you, and he was wearing the red and black armor. He didn't seem to be after you, more just asking about your welfare."

"What did she tell him?"

"The truth. You had been gone for weeks, and nobody knew where you were."

Sorscha regarded him with alarm. "What if I _am_ in the Dark Brotherhood?"

"What if you are?"

She rested her head back on his chest and considered the possibility. She didn't have any trouble killing, never did. She had even mused about it at Helgen the first time she killed an Imperial soldier. It had been easy. Perhaps she _was_ an assassin.

"If I was, would you accept that, too?"

"As a Companion, you're already a mercenary."

"Hmm."

"Sorscha?"

"Aye?"

"Are you gonna leave again?"

"I should. Sometimes I feel like I should be alone. That's the way it's supposed to be."

"No.

"No, what?"

"No, that's not the way it's supposed to be. Nobody should be alone, even a Dragonborn/thief/assassin."

Sorscha chuckled. "I love you," she said softly.

"I love you. Marry me."

She kissed Farkas's chest. "Oh, yes."

They got up and ate breakfast, then went back to bed and spent the rest of the day there. The next morning, there were errands to run. Sorscha stopped in at the temple and bought an amulet of Mara from Maramal, the priest, then went to the Ragged Flagon. She left Farkas in the tavern with Delvin and stepped through the false panel in the Flagon's larder and entered the cistern, where she found Brynjolf.

"I'm getting married," she told him without preamble.

He gave her a big, genuine smile, reached out and hugged her. "I'm not surprised. And I'm happy for you."

"Promise?"

"I really am, love. When is the wedding?"

"A few days. I want to go to Solitude and buy a proper dress, and then we have to go to Whiterun to get his brother."

"Just tell me when, and I'll be there."

"Right now, I'm looking for Rune."

Brynjolf pointed to the training room, and Sorscha found her friend taking swings at a practice dummy with his dagger.

"Hey, my sister in crime!" Rune said when he saw her.

"I have a present for you," she said.

"What is it?"

She pulled the letter from her pack and handed it to him. "I fought some vampires who had killed a courier. He had this for you."

"It's been opened."

"Aye, sorry about that," she said sheepishly. "I couldn't stand it."

"Apology accepted." He opened the letter and read, tension building in his body with every word. He gave a short laugh. "This is...by the Eight, I don't know what to...Torrius!"

"I was thinking. You said it was as though your parents had been erased from existence. You know, those who wear the Cowl of Nocturnal are erased from history."

He looked up at her sharply. "You think one of my parents was the Grey Fox?"

"How exciting would _that_ be, huh?"

Rune smiled at her. "Sorscha, thank you."

"I just delivered the letter," she said humbly.

"Maybe. But this is more than I could have hoped for, and you're responsible for that. If you hadn't killed those vampires, I never would have gotten this." He leaned in and kissed her cheek.

* * *

If Grelka was the bitchiest vendor in Skyrim, Endarie, one of the owners of Radiant Raiment, ran a close second. She was the type of person who believed she was doing her customers a favor, and they were bothering her simply by entering the store. Unfortunately, she and her partner Taarie were the best seamstresses in Skyrim, and their merchandise was unparalleled. Thus, Sorscha left Farkas in the Winking Skeever ("You can't see the dress until the wedding!") and went into the shop.

Endarie was her usual, unpleasant self, but she sold Sorscha a lovely outfit. The chemise was powder blue with slits up both sides, and the sleeves rested just off her shoulders. A golden bodice with blue embroidery and laces rounded out the ensemble. Sorscha also purchased a gold and moonstone circlet and a pair of leather boots, which had been dyed blue. She insisted that Endarie take the time to wrap the items carefully—even made her redo it twice, claiming she was unsatisfied with the job—and then went back to the tavern to get Farkas.

They stopped in Whiterun to retrieve Vilkas, Ria, and Aela from Jorrvaskr and Lydia from Breezehome, then went back to Riften. Sorscha and Farkas had a simple, no-frills wedding at the Temple of Mara. In addition to Brynjolf and the contingent from Whiterun, Balimund, Rune, and even Jarl Laila attended the nuptials. They had a party at the Bee and Barb, at which more members of the Guild showed up, as well as a few of the townspeople Sorscha had made friends with.

While Farkas was standing at the bar discussing blacksmithing with Balimund, Sorscha cornered Vilkas. "Still mad at me?" she asked him.

He folded his arms and said, "What makes you think I'm mad at you?"

"Because I know you, Harbinger. Besides, you've barely spoken to me since we arrived at Jorrvaskr."

Vilkas stared into her eyes for a long moment, then said, "It was...difficult...after you left."

"Surely you didn't have trouble taking over."

"No, becoming Harbinger wasn't difficult. Living with Farkas was. Telling him you weren't coming back was the hardest thing I ever had to do. He never said a word, not even to me, but I could see his pain."

"I'm sorry."

"Tell _him_."

"I did. Leaving the way I did was a mistake, but Vilkas, you have to know how confused I've been. It's not just my memory loss. There's so much else."

"I know, and on some level I do understand."

"But I hurt Farkas."

Vilkas nodded. He sighed and reached for, wrapping his arms around her. "No, sister, I'm not mad anymore. But know this: if you break my brother's heart again, I'll run you through."

Sorscha pulled back and scowled at him. "You _were_ at the wedding, right? It's forever, Vilkas. I meant that when I said it."

"Good, because I missed you, too."

* * *

After seeing the Companions and Lydia off, the happy couple spent another day in bed before setting out for High Hrothgar.

While climbing the 7,000 Steps, Sorscha liked to stop at the plaques along the way and ponder the mysteries. At the first one, however, Farkas asked her a disturbing question.

"What's it say?"

"Wolf, can't you read?"

He shrugged. "I tried a little bit growing up, but it never seemed worth the trouble. I'm a warrior; I don't have the patience to sit and read a book."

"And Vilkas let you get away with that?"

He shrugged again but didn't respond. Sorscha didn't press the issue, but she resolved to bring it up at a later date. She didn't understand how anybody could get by in the world without reading.

When they reached High Hrothgar, Farkas grimaced. "It looks like it doesn't want us to be here," he said.

Sorscha looked up at the imposing stronghold. It seemed bigger than it was, its walls wide and several stories high, and the tower in front pointing toward the sky like the spikes at the gate of a fortress. The tribute chest on the altar was heavy, and the hinges on the lid were rusted, as if contributions were unwelcome. Even the stairs were steep and icy. Farkas was right; High Hrothgar was unfriendly and forbidding.

"Don't worry," she said, "the Greybeards won't hurt you."

Farkas grunted in response and followed her up the steps and in the door.

Sorscha introduced Farkas to Master Arngier and then told him of her activities with the Blades and the lore on Alduin's wall. When she mentioned the Shout that would bring Alduin down, his eyes blazed.

"The Shout is called Dragonrend, and it has no place in the Way of the Voice," he scolded her.

"But it's the only way to defeat Alduin."

"Has it occurred to you that perhaps he was not meant to be defeated? Perhaps the world should be allowed to die so that it can be reborn."

"If Alduin kills the world, who's to say he'll allow it to be reborn? He has to be stopped, Master."

Arngier looked back at her, his face impassive, and didn't answer.

"So you won't help me?"

"Not until you have found your way back to the right path."

"Lovely." She turned and headed for the door, but one of the other monks spoke, his voice rumbling through the walls and sending Farkas to his knees with his hands over his ears. The words were in the dragon language, and Sorscha didn't understand them.

Master Arngier sighed, nodded, and said, "Master Einarth has reminded me that the decision to help you is not mine to make. It is time for you to meet our leader, Paarthurnax. You are not ready, but the Blades have taken this decision out of my hands as well."

The Greybeards took Sorscha and Farkas to the courtyard, and Master Arngier taught her a new Shout. "The way to the peak of the Throat of the World is treacherous. The Clear Skies Shout will help you on your journey."

Sorscha stood at the gate to the path leading to the peak and watched the torrent of wind and snow roiling before her. She took a step through the gate, but the frigid blast stung her cheeks and took her breath away. Stunned, she stepped back and Shouted.

"_Lok vah koor!"_

The miasma cleared instantly, and she stepped through, with Farkas following. They navigated the rocky slope carefully as the wind threatened to blow them from the mountain. Sorscha had to perform the Shout every few minutes, because it wore off quickly and the storm intensified again. Oddly, they encountered a mountain goat that ran ahead of them up much of the path.

"The ice and wind tear at us," said Sorscha, "but he lives. How does he do that?"

They rounded a turn just in time to see the goat step into the storm, seize up and fall dead.

"I guess he doesn't," Farkas commented.

After two hours of Shouting and picking their way across the rocks and snow banks, they reached a plateau, at the end of which stood a dragon wall. The place was deserted; there was no Greybeard, not even a shelter where he might live.

"Hmm," Sorscha mumbled, "maybe there's more."

Before she could take another step, the ground shook and a great shadow passed over her. She drew an arrow and aimed at the dragon, who circled above. He was enormous, bigger than any of the dragons she had fought in the past few months. Farkas drew his bow as well, and they each lobbed an arrow at the dragon, who didn't even flinch. He didn't attack, either. He dove and touched down a few yards away. The golden-scaled wyrm rested on his wings and lowered his head to Sorscha's level. There were several thin patches on his wings and even a few holes. One of the spikes on his chin was broken off, and several of his horns were chipped. This dragon was ancient. He hadn't been recently resurrected; he'd been here all this time.

"I mean you no harm, traveler," he said in a voice that was gravelly but almost soft. "Who are you? How is it that you have come here?"

Sorscha eyed the dragon uncertainly. A dragon who had no intention of harming her? Was he serious? "I'm looking for someone," she said. "Paarthurnax, the leader of the Greybeards."

"_I_ am Paarthurnax."

"A dragon? You lead the Greybeards?"

"I do. Again, I ask: who are you?"

"I think you know who I am."

The dragon blinked in response, and Sorscha noticed his eyes. They were wise, weathered like the rest of his features, and kind. Who could have imagined a dragon with kind eyes?

It turned out that Paarthurnax loved to talk. Sorscha guessed he was lonely, living up there by himself for so long. To indulge him, she let him tell her about the Way of the Voice and the history of the Greybeards; and she told him about her marriage to Farkas, her amnesia, and her life since waking up at Helgen. He found it very interesting that her memories had been taken.

"It has been implied before that my memories were taken," she said.

"It is powerful magic that can filter certain memories from a _joor's_ mind."

Farkas bristled at the word "magic."

"What kind of mage could do that?" she asked.

"I know little of the world below, but the magic that took your memories may not be of that world."

"Meaning..."

Paarthurnax turned away from her and stared into a swirling cloud near the word wall. Sorscha had barely noticed it before, thinking it was just a wind pocket, but now she realized it glowed and churned with magic. "A Divine or daedric lord could take your memories, of course, but there is another possibility. Long ago, when the dragons ruled the world, they taught certain of the dragon priests to alter the minds of others. They were able to steal memories, insert false ones, and compel their subjects to do many things."

"Are you saying a dragon priest did this?"

"To my knowledge, the dragon priests disappeared with my brethren. However, perhaps some of the old magic survived. Your coming was foretold, as was Alduin's. If someone recognized you as _Dovahkiin_, they may have taken steps to prevent you from fulfilling your destiny."

"But why not just kill me?"

"I do not know."

After a while, the conversation turned to the Dragonrend Shout. Paarthurnax told Sorscha the Shout may have come from an Elder Scroll, but not knowing the human world, he had no idea where to find one. Thus, after she learned the second level of the Fire Breath Shout, which was written on the word wall, Sorscha and Farkas took their leave and trudged back down the mountain to High Hrothgar to ask Arngier if he knew.

"If Paarthurnax believes this is the path you should take, we will honor it," he said reluctantly. "The mages at the College of Winterhold deal in artifacts such as the Elder Scrolls. If you must, go and see them."

As Sorscha and Farkas left High Hrothgar and started down the 7,000 Steps, Farkas was even quieter than normal. When Sorscha tried to engage him in conversation, his responses were short and terse. She finally stopped and said, "All right, what is the matter?"

"Mages," he grumbled.

"The college," she surmised. "Wolf, you don't have to go with me. I've already been there, and they know me, so I shouldn't have any trouble."

"_How_ do they know you?"

"Enthir, the elf who helped me translate Gallus's journal, is with the college. He's also a fence for the Guild. I had to gain entry so I could meet him there from time to time."

"They just let you in?"

"Being Dragonborn does have advantages."

"Well, whether you've been there before or not, if you think I'm going to let you go in there alone, you're crazy."

She kissed her new husband. "College of Winterhold it is, then. But I have other obligations first."

"What do you need to do?"

"I've been sitting on a job for Delvin since before I became a vampire. I should probably take care of that first."

"What are you stealing?"

"Not 'what' so much as 'how much.' It's what he likes to call a 'bedlam job.' I go into a city and steal five hundred septims' worth of merchandise. This time it's Windhelm."

"Let's head to Windhelm, then."

"Want to hear something strange?" Sorscha said thoughtfully.

"What?"

"I don't trust the Blades _or_ the Greybeards. Each says the other has their own agenda and would rather use me than help me. I think they're both right. The Blades want to kill Alduin, and the Greybeards want to let the world end. And they both want to use me to do it. They'll help me all they can, as long as I help them."

"The Greybeards are old. But just because they're old doesn't mean they're wise."

Sorscha nodded. "I think they've lost something, staying up here so isolated from the world. I _do_, however, trust Paarthurnax."

"Why?"

"Because he _hasn't_ lost it. He was more interested in imparting wisdom than trying to bend me to his will. I think continuing to work between the Blades and the Greybeards will be troublesome, but I think I've made a great ally in Paarthurnax. And who knows? Maybe he can keep the Greybeards in line."

"But who'll keep the Blades in line?"

Sorscha sighed. "That is a very good question."

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC

6


	13. Chapter 13 Crime Spree in Windhelm

Searching for Memories 13

Crime Spree in Windhelm

Windhelm was cold and gray as usual. Even at night, the city had a bleak, dismal look to it. It never got really dark—so many torches gave the walls and ground a pale glow at night—but the extra light did little to cheer the city up. Tonight, however, a light snow had just begun to fall as Sorscha stepped out of Candlehearth Hall into the brisk air, and the gentle flakes gave the colorless stone of the square a crystalline glimmer as they accumulated. For all that it was the dreariest place in Skyrim, Sorscha liked Windhelm. She had occasionally wondered if she and her mother had come here after leaving Darkwater Crossing, but although she knew the city, it didn't really feel like home. The inn, however, _was_ beginning to feel like home, especially tonight, knowing that Farkas was waiting for her, keeping the bed warm for her return.

What had she been thinking, excluding him from her life? She wasn't, obviously. She was so much stronger when he was there, and she was happy for the first time since she awoke at Helgen.

In addition to the job for Delvin, Sorscha recalled an item Vex had mentioned and decided to pick it up while she was in town. She headed in the direction of the Gray Quarter. On the way, she passed the Aretino house. She'd heard a boy and his governess talking about the house before, and all the guards gossiped about the child who lived there, who was rumored to have performed the Black Sacrament to call the Dark Brotherhood. The house gave Sorscha chills. It was an unsightly place, built above the street with no ground floor. The wings of the U-shaped structure sat on supports on both sides of the road, and a middle section passed over it like a bridge. If she stood quietly under the east wing, she could almost hear the boy chanting.

"Sweet mother...sweet mother..."

No. It was just the wind. Wasn't it? They were just rumors, and Aventus Aretino wasn't really up there calling for the Dark Brotherhood.

"Sweet mother...sweet mother..."

Then she knew. There really was a little boy up there! Sorscha couldn't just let him stay up there. She picked the lock and went into the house.

The house reeked of decay, feces, and blood, and flies buzzed around her head. The stairs were directly in front of the door, giving her no choice but to go up. At the top of the stairs, she looked behind her to see that the west wing was completely inaccessible. There was storage space there, but there was no easy way to get to it. To her right, over the road, was the main living area, which was sparsely furnished with a table, a couple of chairs, and a bed on the far wall. The room was in disarray, with baskets, pots and urns turned over and clutter all over the table, including a raw leg of goat that smelled and looked like it was several days old and swarmed with flies. She continued through the room to the east wing, where she found an unsettling tableau. There was no furniture in the room, only a circle of candles surrounding a skeleton, some human organs, a dagger, and a book, on which a nightshade bloom rested. Kneeling over the items, chanting wearily, was Aventus Aretino.

"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear. Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear. Why won't you come? I'm so tired."

Sorscha watched in silence as the boy said the Black Sacrament over and over, not realizing she was there. After he repeated it the fourth time, Sorscha cleared her throat.

Aventus looked up at her, and his face lit up. "You came!" he cried as he struggled stiffly to his feet. He was a cute youngster with dark hair and big brown eyes, but he was emaciated and filthy, and his eyes conveyed a world-weariness that a boy of nine or ten should not have. Sorscha had to wonder how long he'd been on his hands and knees, chanting away without eating or sleeping. "I knew you'd come! I just knew it!"

Sorscha just stared at him, speechless.

"You don't have to say anything. I know you're with the Dark Brotherhood, and I know you'll accept my contract." He told her the sad story of how his mother had died and Jarl Ulfric sent him to Honorhall Orphanage in Riften, where he and the other children were abused by Grelod the Kind, the cruel matron of the house.

By the Nine, why did everybody think she was with the Dark Brotherhood? Still Sorscha remained silent throughout and didn't bother telling him she wasn't with the assassins' order. She had a feeling that even if she did, he wouldn't believe her. After all, he was saying the Black Sacrament when she came into his house. She couldn't tell if his description of the matron was accurate or if he was exaggerating, but one thing was certain: he wanted Grelod dead. Sorscha decided she would at least sneak into the orphanage and see for herself how bad it was.

"I'm tired now," he finally said. "I've been doing this for a while, and I think I'll go to bed now. Then maybe I'll clean up some." He walked past her and went to his bed, where he lay down and turned toward the wall.

Sorscha walked toward the stairs, but a piece of paper on the floor caught her eye. She picked up the page, which was covered with grime, and read. It proved to be a note from Ulfric's steward, Jorleif. He offered Ulfric's condolences to Aventus for his mother's death but informed him that he couldn't stay in the house alone. Guards would be there in a few days to take him to Honorhall, where he would live until he turned sixteen. Sorscha wondered if Ulfric had any idea what he had indirectly put the boy through.

There was no one on the street as Sorscha exited the house and made her way to the Gray Quarter. The guards rarely patrolled the area, and she made it to the target house completely undetected. She broke in and retrieved the item, a hideous urn that was covered with gems and gold roping, and got back out in just a couple of minutes. Then she headed for the Palace of the Kings.

There was so much to do on this trip to Windhelm! She usually didn't have more than one Guild job in a city at a time, but Vex and Delvin had made traveling easy on her this time. With the two jobs and breaking into Aventus Aretino's house, Sorscha had herself a little one-woman crime spree. Maybe stealing from the Palace of the Kings wasn't the best idea, but Sorscha was feeling powerful at the moment. Besides, she had gotten word that the court mage was in possession of a Stone of Barenziah. The stones, which were little more than ugly pinkish gem chips that part of a priceless crown she was working on putting together for Vex. On their own, the stones were pretty much worthless, but Delvin still counted them toward the 500 septims in a bedlam job.

There was no need to break into the Palace of the Kings; she simply walked past the guards and opened one of the massive twin doors. Lighter than she would have expected, they opened onto a stone entry hall with iron doors on either side. Etienne Rarnis from the Guild had given her a map of the palace, so she knew where to go. The map said the door to the left led to the mage's chambers, and Sorscha started to head in that direction, but a familiar voice caught her attention.

The entryway led directly into the great hall with no transition. An impossibly long dining table ran up the center of the hall, and blue and gold banners led to a dais on the other end, which was flanked by Stormcloak standards. On the dais was an enormous stone throne, and on the throne sat Ulfric Stormcloak. He was talking to a man who stood before him, and because he had his back to her, Sorscha couldn't tell much, except that he seemed to have a bear on his head. They hadn't seen her, and because the guards had taken little note of her so far, she had no reason to believe they wouldn't let her cross the hall and enter the door to the mage's quarters, which is what she should have done. But Ulfric's voice was compelling, and she found herself moving slowly past the table and through the great hall.

Ulfric looked the same as he had that day at Helgen, wearing an intricately carved breastplate, heavy trousers, wolf boots, and impressive bear-skin coat. His eyes still had that intense stare, which he directed at the man standing in front of him. They spoke about plans that were in the works regarding Whiterun. The man, whom Ulfric called Galmar, wanted to kill Jarl Balgruuf, but Ulfric was interested in making a more powerful statement by taking the city and leaving Balgruuf in disgrace. Sorscha knew she should run back to Whiterun and tell Balgruuf what Ulfric was planning, but she found she had no desire to cross the Jarl of Windhelm. It wasn't that she feared Ulfric; it was more that she felt an inexplicable loyalty to him. Where it came from, she didn't know. She had only met him once—that she knew of, anyway—and though he helped save her life, that was no reason to pledge allegiance to him. Still, she didn't see herself betraying him.

As she drifted toward the throne, Ulfric and Galmar's conversation turned toward philosophy, and Ulfric poured his heart out about his intentions, his affection for his people—most notably the men in his charge—his grief for their deaths and their families, and his hatred for the empire. By his tone of voice, Sorscha could tell he meant every word he said. His feelings ran deep, and he wasn't ashamed to show them. If she hadn't been sure of her loyalty before, listening to him now assuaged any doubts she may have had.

Ulfric noticed her as she neared the throne, and his eyes widened. Galmar turned to see what Ulfric was looking at, and she got a better look at him. He was in his late fifties, with blond hair that had started to give over to gray. His headdress was indeed a bear's head, and fur lay over his shoulders and breastplate as well. Nasty-looking spikes jutted out from his gauntlets and boots. He was fit for his age, well-muscled, with fiery eyes and the expression of a soldier who had seen no shortage of war in his lifetime. He looked at the same time savage and wise.

"You're very quiet," Galmar said.

"You're right," she replied. She turned her gaze to Ulfric, who watched her with those penetrating green eyes, and said, "I'm sorry to intrude."

He narrowed his eyes, not in malice but as if he were weighing his words. "Do we know each other?" he asked finally.

"I was at Helgen."

Sorscha could have sworn he looked disappointed, but expression only lasted for a second before he said, "Aye, that's right. You were headed for the block, if I remember."

"As were you."

Ulfric smirked. "Yes, we're all branded as criminals these days. Have you given up your life of crime?"

"Ralof said he would vouch for me."

"Ralof is alive? That's good to hear. He hasn't made it back, and I had begun to fear he hadn't survived the attack. As he's not here to speak for you, you'll need to prove yourself as everyone else does. Talk to Galmar to get started." He got up and descended the steps of the dais, then stood before her for a moment, staring into her eyes.

Being under such close scrutiny by so powerful a man should have made her uncomfortable, but she felt safe under Ulfric's gaze, as though he weren't trying to intimidate her but assuring her he had her best interests at heart. Thus, she met his eyes earnestly and even gave him a smile, which he returned. He looked uncomfortable, and Sorscha got the idea he didn't smile very much.

After a moment, he nodded at Galmar and left the room. Galmar stepped in close to Sorscha as though he _were_ trying to intimidate her, but Sorscha didn't intimidate easily. She stood her ground.

"Helgen, eh?" he said. "So Ulfric wasn't exaggerating?"

"Why would he do that?"

"So tell me. Why would a foreigner want to help the Stormcloaks?"

"I'm not a foreigner. I'm a Nord, and Skyrim is my home."

Galmar nodded. "Well, we don't let just anyone in, you know. You'll have to prove yourself."

"I can handle anything you throw at me."

"That's the spirit!" Galmar directed her to Serpentstone Island, where she was to retrieve the teeth of an ice wraith.

Sorscha wanted badly to say, "Oh, is that all?" but she didn't. She also knew good and well that not every Stormcloak soldier had to prove himself this way, but she didn't tell him that, either. Galmar wanted something from her, and until she knew what it was, she would play along. Besides, she was curious now.

After Galmar took his leave, Sorscha went back to the entry hall and through the iron door to the mage's quarters. A narrow stairway took her to the second floor and an even narrower hallway with several corridors leading off of it, but with the help of Etienne's map she found the mage's chamber with little trouble. The walls of the small room were lined with tables and bookshelves containing myriad ingredients and potions. An arcane enchanter stood in the center of the room, and an alchemy lab was tucked into the back corner. Lying on a bed near the alchemy lab, snoring, was the court mage, Wuunferth the Unliving. She had no idea why they called him that because he was human and appeared to be very much alive, but she didn't care as long as he kept snoring. The Stone of Barenziah rested on a table amid deer skulls and ingredients, the ugly little pink gem nestled in its ugly little yellow box. Sorscha crept into the room and snatched the gem while Wuunferth snoozed, then left the way she came in.

Farkas was in bed when she made it back to their room at Candlehearth Hall, warm and inviting. Sorscha undressed and snuggled down next to him, and he wrapped his arms around her.

"How'd it go?" he asked drowsily.

"It was...eventful."

He opened his eyes and raised his head. "What happened?" he asked with concern.

"Well, I took an assassination contract, and I kind of accidentally joined the Stormcloaks."

Farkas plopped his head on the pillow and laughed. "Well, at least you didn't get caught," he said lightly.

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC


	14. Chapter 14 Battle for Whiterun

Searching for Memories 14

Battle for Whiterun

"Rumor has it you're Dragonborn," said Galmar as Sorscha stood before him with two sets of ice wraith teeth, one for herself and one for Farkas.

Sorscha nodded in confirmation. "And as such, I have obligations. I can't do this fulltime. I need to remain autonomous."

"Done. Is that what took you so long? You were busy being Dragonborn?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize there was a deadline." In truth, she had made a side trip to Riften to take care of a few things at home and assess the situation with Grelod the Kind. She had snuck into the orphanage and listened to the goings on for five minutes, and it was more than enough. Aventus was right: she was far from kind. She had threatened the children with violence, insulted them, told them they would never be adopted, and then forced them to tell her they loved her. A child sporting a swollen, black eye had passed the corner where Sorscha had tucked herself. She had been so incensed by the woman's cruelty that she had actually been inspired to forge special daggers to kill her with. But Galmar didn't need to know all that.

Galmar looked over at Farkas, who, as usual, hadn't spoken. "You don't talk much, do you?"

"Ain't got much to say."

"What are you, the hired muscle?"

"Husband," Sorscha corrected him.

"_And_ hired muscle," Farkas added.

Galmar chortled. "So you're ready to take the oath, too?"

"I am."

"There's one more thing," said Sorscha. "Farkas stays with me."

"Out of the question. Just because _you_ have obligations doesn't mean _he_ does. We'll need him fulltime."

"Then you can fight this war without us."

"Now, you look here, little girl" –

"Make it so," Ulfric said from the doorway.

"Ulfric, I understand how you feel" –

"Trust me, Galmar. You don't. They stay together. Just be careful how many demands you make, Dragonborn. As far as the Stormcloaks are concerned, you're still Unblooded. Both of you."

"So what's our first move?"

"Korvunjund," said Galmar.

* * *

Ulfric sat on the throne with a smile on his face, examining the Jagged Crown while Sorscha and Farkas looked on. Jagged was right. It was made of dragon teeth and bones, and it looked more like a torture device than a helm. It was very heavy, and though she had gotten used to the weight while on her way back from Korvunjund, she still wouldn't have wanted to wear it on her head.

"You've done well," Ulfric said.

"Galmar says you owe him a drink," said Sorscha.

"I suppose I do," he replied with a chuckle.

"If you'll indulge me for a moment, my lord, I have a question." Ulfric nodded his assent, and she said, "They say you killed High King Toryyg by Shouting him apart."

"Knowing the Way of the Voice, I'm surprised you would ask that."

"The Unrelenting Force Shout is powerful. I would imagine the Greybeards could do it, so I wanted to hear what you had to say."

"I merely hurled him to the ground with my Thu'um. It was my sword that killed him."

"Some call you a murderer."

"Do you believe that?"

"I don't know enough to answer that."

"Fair enough. I challenged him to a duel, and he accepted."

"You know," she said slowly, "there are murders occurring right here in the city."

"Aye, the young women. The city guards are handling the investigation. Now. I have another task for you. It's time to send a message to the Jarl of Whiterun. Take my war axe and present it to Balgruuf."

"Your axe?"

Ulfric's eyes blazed, and his voice rose with every word of his response. "How long have you lived in Skyrim? Presentation of the axe is a challenge. If he accepts it, it's a peace offering; if he returns it, it means war. It's not your place to question my every order. Now, _take the man the axe!_"

Tears threatened to well in Sorscha's eyes, but she blinked them back. "Any message?"

"The axe is its own message."

Jorleif stood by with the axe and tried to hand it to Sorscha, but she crossed her arms and stared back at Ulfric.

"What!" he demanded.

"I would like to remind the Jarl that I have no memories before Helgen. Thus, I've lived in Skyrim for just about a year."

Ulfric looked as if she had slapped him. He seemed to shrink in his seat as he rubbed his temples. "My apologies. I misspoke."

"The murders?"

"What about them?"

"I'd ask for a few days to investigate them. The guards are spread too thin with the war—they told me so themselves—and Jorleif has given me permission to ask around."

"Take care of Whiterun, and I'll give you leave to investigate the murders." Sorscha stared back at him, and he locked his eyes on hers. "That's my final word, Sorscha."

"Yes, sir," she snapped. She snatched the axe from Jorleif and stalked out through the great hall with Farkas following silently.

"You're hard to get along with," Farkas said as they left the palace. "I hope he doesn't lose patience with you."

"I hope I don't lose patience with _him_," Sorscha retorted.

* * *

Jarl Balgruuf opted to return the axe, and as Sorscha and Farkas left Dragonsreach, Farkas said, "We have to tell Vilkas."

"I know. I don't want to think about what might happen to Jorrvaskr."

"The Companions have stayed out of the war."

"But Wolf, sometimes war comes to your door, and you have to get involved whether you want to or not."

They found Vilkas in the courtyard, hacking at a training dummy. "It's good to see you," he said as he hugged Sorscha and clasped forearms with his brother.

"We have news," said Farkas.

"It's probably better if we go to your quarters," said Sorscha.

They followed Vilkas to the Harbinger's quarters, and they told him about the offer of Ulfric's axe and its return.

"The Stormcloaks will lay siege to Whiterun," he speculated.

"And when they do," said Sorscha, "Wolf and I will be with them."

"When did you join the Stormcloaks?"

"Recently," said Farkas.

"Do you know when they—you—will attack?"

Sorscha shook her head. "I still have to take the axe back to Windhelm, but they're prepared. It shouldn't be more than a few days."

"We can't stay out of the battle. You know that."

"Why not?" Farkas asked.

"We must defend our home."

"I will not draw on you."

"Nor I, you."

"Look, Vilkas," said Sorscha. "The Companions have remained neutral throughout the conflict. Defend Jorrvaskr if you must, but just expect the Stormcloaks to see your participation in the fight as an alliance with the Empire."

Vilkas glared at her.

"Hey, don't blame me for this," she protested. "Ulfric was going to march on Whiterun anyway. Our involvement only _helps_ the Companions, because now you know when it's coming."

"I'm not blaming you, sister. I blame Ulfric for starting this whole business up to begin with."

"You didn't hear him," said Farkas. "He believes he's doing right."

"Do _you_? Or are you just going along with this for Sorscha?"

"Why do you do that?" Farkas barked. "I _can_ think for myself, you know. Aye, I believe he's doing right."

"I'm sorry, brother. Very well, we'll stay out of the battle as best we can. But if they attack Jorrvaskr, we'll have no choice but to fight."

"As it should be," said Sorscha.

* * *

"_A new day is dawning and the sun rises over Whiterun."_

Ulfric's words. But he wasn't here, and the sun wasn't rising. It was a dismal morning, with thunderclouds churning overhead and intermittent bursts of rain. The gray sky was made even darker by thick columns of smoke billowing into the air on both sides of Whiterun's walls. The crash of thunder was punctuated by the blast of explosives and the great whipping sound of the trebuchets as they flung stones covered with burning oil at the city's walls and buildings.

And above all the din, Galmar was giving a pep talk.

The Stormcloak soldiers cheered as he stood in the shadow of Pelagius Farm's windmill, enthusiastically reminding them of their homes, their families, and their vocations. Today's battle would be a devastating blow to the Empire that wanted to take those things from them. When he had worked them into a frenzy, he led the charge across the bridge toward the walls.

While Farkas stayed with the troops, Sorscha ran ahead. Her role in this operation was twofold: first, she had to get the gate open. Second, she and Galmar were to make their way to Dragonsreach and force Balgruuf to surrender. Dragonborn or not, the amount of faith Ulfric and Galmar put in her was astonishing. She didn't know if she had that much confidence in _herself_. But Ulfric had handed her the key position, stressing the importance that she challenge Balgruuf personally.

"Why?" she had asked him.

"Because I said so."

"Ulfric, you may or may not have noticed, but I'm not much for blind loyalty. You chose me to take him that axe for a reason, and now you want me to fight him. I think before I make such a challenge, I deserve to know why."

She had expected a haranguing for her impertinence, but he didn't even raise his voice. He simply said, "You're correct. This is a political decision. You are more than capable of accomplishing the task I have set before you; but more, you are his thane, and you own a home in his city. You are also a member of the Companions, which is a revered institution in Whiterun."

"So you're using me to slap him in the face."

Ulfric's face had turned red, but he still didn't rebuke her. He just gave her a straight answer. "Aye."

When Sorscha had taken the oath to join the Stormcloaks, she had pledged her undying loyalty to Ulfric, and she still felt that way. His ideals, his dedication, and his passion were unmatched, and she would lay down her life for him. But he sure got on her nerves.

Sorscha sprinted past the Stormcloaks and dodged arrows in an effort to make it to the drawbridge without getting killed or, just as important, not killing any of the guards. She and Farkas had agreed to do their best to fight the Imperials but refrain from harming Whiterun's guards. They were just defending their home, after all, not to mention the fact that they were friends. She only hoped they would keep the same thing in mind when they saw her coming. She carried her swords, but she intended to use them only in the most extreme of circumstances—or when she ultimately met up with Balgruuf. She ran past the empty space where the Khajiit caravans usually placed their tents and through the first gate, and she squealed in pain as an arrow caught her in the side. Her armor took the worst of the impact, and the arrow barely pierced her skin, but she didn't have time to pull it out because she was set upon by two Whiterun guards.

"You're not getting through, Companion," one of them said as he brandished his sword at her.

Sorscha responded in the manner she had already planned for such an encounter. "_Fus ro dah!_" The guards went flying and crashed into a wall, and Sorscha darted up the ramp that led to the platform holding the drawbridge lever. The mechanism was guarded by an Imperial soldier, who came at her with a vicious jab to her midsection. Sorscha parried with Dragonbane and drove her flaming sword into the Imperial's chest. When she withdrew the blade, he toppled from the platform to the ground below. Sorscha hit the lever, the drawbridge opened, and dozens of Stormcloak soldiers rushed in. They had the city gates open by the time she yanked the arrow from her side and climbed down from the platform, and she took off running again as she went through.

The city was in shambles. The awning on Warmaiden's was on fire, as were the guards' barracks. Breezehome seemed undamaged at this point, at least what she could see as she ran past. Bodies were already starting to litter the street as the Imperials and guards fended off the Stormcloaks, both hand-to-hand and from the walls with bow and arrow. The kiosks in the market district burned, as did the roof of one of the nearby homes. The rest was a blur as she dashed past the well and up the stairs to the barricade blocking off the Wind District. Her Unrelenting Force Shout deterred the guards long enough to cut the barricade down with a few swings of her sword, and then she went through.

Sorscha stopped long enough to take a look at Jorrvaskr, which was locked up tight and cordoned off with barricades, and it appeared no one had attempted to breach it. Then she thought of Vignar Gray-Mane. Vignar was a Companion, and while the order remained neutral, the Gray-Manes were staunch Stormcloak sympathizers. If the old man knew about the siege ahead of time—and he would have—he'd have taken steps to protect the mead hall. At this moment, Jorrvaskr was probably the safest place in Whiterun.

"Dragonborn!" Galmar said as he caught up with her. "Let's move!"

Sorscha and Galmar ran up the stairs to Dragonsreach, each sending an Imperial soldier bleeding into the moat. When they reached the top, a Whiterun guard stood on the bridge behind the barricade, aiming his bow at her.

"Sorscha, don't make me kill you," he said.

"_Fus ro dah!_"

The guard tumbled over the rail and into the moat below.

Galmar chuckled. "I never get tired of seeing that." He took out the barrier with a single blow of his battleaxe, then led the way onto the bridge.

Sorscha paused and sighed, looking up at the magnificent palace before her. From her vantage point it seemed undamaged. No, all the damage would occur inside.

Galmar came back and stood before her. "I've never been much for comfort," he said gruffly. "I've always been the one to _cause_ the torment, not relieve it."

"Whiterun has been my home, and Balgruuf has been my friend."

"Then you will need to call upon extra courage. You've made your choice, Dragonborn. It's a bit late to turn back now."

Sorscha looked away from the palace and met Galmar's eyes. "You're right. Let's get this over with."

"That's the spirit!" He turned and led her to the heavy doors of Dragonsreach.

Half a dozen Whiterun guards stood in the entry hall, waiting for her arrival. Galmar went at them with his axe, but Sorscha shouted, "No!" She released her Unrelenting Force Shout and hurled them out of the way. Next came Balgruuf's housecarl Irileth and his brother Hrongar, but before they could attack, Balgruuf called them down.

"I'll not continue to stand by and let these...Stormcloaks take my city without a fight. Step forward, Dragonborn, and face me."

"I'm sorry," she said earnestly as she engaged him.

The jarl was an excellent technical fighter. Every swing, every parry, was perfectly executed. But Sorscha was a scrapper, used to thinking on her feet, and she adjusted to his style quickly. She deflected a blow with Dragonbane and then sent it, immediately followed by the flaming blade, slicing through Balgruuf's midsection. He doubled over, but he was paying enough attention to perform a very effective thrust into her side, only an inch or so from the arrow wound. Sorscha didn't feel the pain right away, and she was concerned that the wound might be serious. She had to finish the fight while she was still on her feet.

"Surrender, Balgruuf," she urged the Jarl. With one swift, swirling movement, she carved a deep gash in his chest with Dragonbane, and he cried out from the pain of the shock. Then he raised a hand. "Hold," he said. "Guards, stand down!" he shouted throughout the great hall. He scowled at Sorscha and was about to say something, but his words were interrupted by a thundering shout from the door.

"_Balgruuf!_" Vignar Gray-Mane strolled up the stairs, flanked by Galmar and her friend Ralof, with whom she had reunited at Korvunjund, and waited for Balgruuf to meet him at the top. Sorscha followed Balgruuf, then went to stand next to her comrades. The old Gray-Mane declared himself Jarl, and an argument ensued. Galmar looked over at Sorscha and rolled his eyes.

"Gentlemen," he interrupted, "there is a city out there without a government. We need to stop the pissing match and start regaining order."

Balgruuf turned to Sorscha. "You," he said derisively. "A Stormcloak. I thought better of you."

"Jarl, the Empire has never done me any favors. They tried to kill me just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and anyone who _has_ shown me kindness has done it for personal reasons, not political. Including you."

"You can expect no more kindness from me."

"I understand."

"Get on over to Windhelm," Galmar said, interrupting the conversation. "Tell Ulfric we were victorious."

"I need a night's sleep, Galmar."

"Then take it. Take care of that wound, too, and get on the road tomorrow." She started to turn away, but he said, "Dragonborn."

She stopped and regarded him expectantly.

"Well done."

Sorscha smiled at him and left the palace. When she reached the end of the bridge and saw the destruction laid out before her, her heart sank and her body felt as if a heavy weight had been thrust upon her shoulders. Most of the serious damage was concentrated in the Wind District. Several of the arbors around the Gildergreen had been crushed, and Heimskr's house had been completely destroyed, the roof crushed and the remains burned, probably by a direct hit from a trebuchet. She prayed to Talos that he had survived. He may have been annoying, standing out in the circle boldly shouting praise to Talos and venom toward the elves all day, but if he was gone, they would miss him. _She_ would miss him.

She went down the stairs and walked slowly back through the Wind and Plains Districts toward Breezehome, where she was to meet Farkas after the battle, and she found it harder to breathe with each step she took. Her side hurt, and it bled freely, leaving a trail of blood behind her; but it wasn't the pain that bothered her. She had been part of this. Whiterun would never be the same, and it was partly her fault. True, she hadn't killed any guards and she hadn't burned any buildings, but this was her home, and these were her friends. There had been no way around it other than to side with the Imperials, but the fact remained that she and Farkas had betrayed them, and there was no taking that back. She only hoped that in time, they would forgive her.

Sorscha opened the door to Breezehome to find Farkas sitting by the fire pit, bent over with his head in his hands. He had changed out of his armor and wore a tan shirt and trousers. His feet were bare. He sat up when she came in, and he looked sad and tired. "You're hurt," he said with trepidation when he saw the blood dripping from her side.

She nodded. "I don't think it's life threatening. I'll take care of it in a minute."

"You should take care of it now."

"Wolf, what have we done?"

"Come here."

She went to him and sat on his lap, then buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed.

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC


	15. Chapter 15 Too Much Information

Searching for Memories 15

Too Much Information

"Sorscha has turned up," Nazir said as he stepped into Astrid's room, where she sat by the fire, reading. She had to crane her neck to look up at the imposing Redguard.

"Sit down," she said, "trying to see your face is hurting my neck." Nazir sat down in the chair next to her, and she said, "Where did she turn up? She wasn't still in Riften?"

"Perhaps 'turned up' isn't the right phrase, because she is still living in Riften, although she maintains a home in Whiterun as well. Let's say she stuck her head out of the ground."

"What'd she do?"

"She committed a murder."

"What? Are you sure it was her?"

Nazir nodded. "Oh, yes. It was her standard mode of operation. Our spy said she made a special trip to Windhelm and forged two elven daggers, and two nights later she killed Grelod the Kind with them."

"Grelod the..."

"She ran Honorhall Orphanage in Riften. According to rumor, she was murdered by the Dark Brotherhood in response to a call by one Aventus Aretino, a former resident of the orphanage."

Astrid laughed. "She did it under the name of the Brotherhood? You're kidding! Has she gotten her memory back?"

"Our spy didn't mention it. Perhaps she just took the contract because she felt sorry for the lad."

"That sounds like her." Astrid sighed with resignation. "I was trying to put this off as long as possible, but very well. Let's bring her in. On second thought, let _me_ bring her in."

"Astrid, play nice," Nazir chided her.

"Define 'nice.'"

* * *

"What were you thinking?" Ulfric bellowed at Sorscha. They stood in the war room face-to-face, and Ulfric loomed over her, glowering at her with eyes blazing in fury. Though Farkas was just as responsible as she was, all of Ulfric's wrath was directed at her. "You had no right to tell them we were coming!"

"How do you even know that?"

"Because people talk," he said cryptically, although Sorscha suspected there was more to it than mere rumor.

"Oh, come on, Ulfric, you know we didn't tell them anything they didn't already know, or at least wouldn't find out soon. Everybody knew you were going to march on Whiterun. The Imperials have been spying on you, and you openly challenged Balgruuf, for Talos's sake! The Companions are our family. All we did was warn them that we would be part of the attack and implore them to stay out of the fight, which they did. Believe me, if they had been among those defending Whiterun, the battle wouldn't have been so easy."

"You call that easy? Were you even there? You need to think about your priorities, Sorscha. Whose side are you on, ours or theirs?"

"I'm on your side, Ulfric, you know that. But that doesn't mean I'll betray my family."

"You betrayed _us_!"

"Well, if you believe I'm such a traitor, throw me in jail! Otherwise, you promised to give me time to solve the Butcher murders, so let me get out there and do my job!"

Ulfric sneered at her, and she met his glare head on. She didn't know what it was. He was her superior in every way, but he infuriated her, and she couldn't make herself stand still while he read her the riot act without defending herself. They stared at each other for what seemed to Sorscha like hours before Ulfric finally looked away. "You have a seven-night," he barked. "Now get out of my sight before I change my mind."

She turned and left the war room. As she stomped through the great hall, she muttered, "Ugh, that man is so frustrating!"

Behind her, she heard Ulfric's fist slam on a table. "Gods damn it!" he cried. "That girl is so frustrating!"

"You're just alike," Farkas said.

"We are _nothing_ alike."

"Whatever you say, my dear."

* * *

"_We know._"

Sorscha and Farkas sat in the living room at Breezehome, having come to Whiterun after solving the Butcher murders in order to help rebuild the town. Repairs were just getting underway after several days of bad weather, and they could use all the help they could get. The courier had found Sorscha just outside the house, and she had come inside to read the note he had given her. Her hand trembled as she looked at it.

"What does it say?" Farkas asked.

"It says, 'We know.'"

"That's the Dark Brotherhood symbol."

"Aye, it is." She held it out over the fire pit, pondering burning it, but she couldn't bring herself to throw it into the fire. For all that it terrified her, it seemed right somehow. After all, she _had_ taken one of their kills. It made sense that they would do something like this. That didn't, however, discount the fact that this was some serious messing with her head. Why didn't they just kill her? Why try to scare her like this? She hated to admit it, but it was working.

"I will not let them hurt you," Farkas said resolutely.

"More likely, they'll hurt us _both_."

"Then bring 'em on."

"I don't know that the Dark Brotherhood are much for a stand-up fight, Wolf."

"Well, then we watch our backs."

They spent the afternoon at Warmaiden's, Farkas helping War-Bear fix damage to the store and Sorscha helping Adrianne at the forge to replace some of her stock that had been looted during the battle. After dinner and several drinks at Jorrvaskr, Sorscha and Farkas went back to Breezehome and turned in. They had been as cautious as possible all day, but it's hard to watch one's back when he or she is asleep.

Sorscha went to sleep in Farkas's arms, but she awoke on the cold, hard floor of a dimly lit shack. It was fully furnished, but everything was out of place. A bed and table sat in the middle of the floor, and tables, chairs and dressers stood empty on the walls. The floor was covered with dirt and leaves, and the walls were spattered with blood. It was not a cheery place to wake up. Her bow, arrows, and daggers lay on the table.

"Welcome back," said a feminine voice somewhere above her.

She struggled to her feet and looked around to find a masked woman sitting atop an empty bookcase. She knew the armor. This woman was in the Dark Brotherhood.

"What did you do to Farkas?" she asked.

"Don't worry; he's safe and sound. I even left him a note telling him where to find you. He's gorgeous, by the way. You did well for yourself."

"Gee, thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"Why haven't you killed me?"

"Killed you? Why would I do that? My dear, you're one of us."

* * *

When Farkas opened his eyes, he was alone. He figured Sorscha was downstairs, and he started to get up and go find her, but he noticed the note on her pillow. He couldn't read the note, but he knew what it said. The Dark Brotherhood had Sorscha. His heart hammered, and his breath caught in his throat, but he refused to panic. If she was alive, he would be no good to her if he didn't keep his wits about him. If she was dead, he would need all his strength to hunt down and kill every assassin in the order. And he would, if it was the last thing he ever did.

He threw on some clothes, left the house, and fairly ran to Jorrvaskr, where he found Vilkas sitting at the table in the mead hall, groaning about his aching head.

"Morning," Vilkas croaked as Farkas sat down next to him.

"I need help." He handed his brother the note, and Vilkas read, then looked up at him, eyes wide.

"Why would they do this?" he asked.

"Do what? Just read me the damned letter."

"It says, 'Dear, dear Farkas, your love is fine, I promise, and she will stay that way. We just needed to have a little chat. You can find her at a shack in the swamps north of Morthal. I wouldn't waste any time, though. I doubt she'll want to wait around for you very long. Love and kisses, Astrid.'"

"Astrid?"

"Astrid is purported to lead the Dark Brotherhood. Farkas, how did she get their attention?"

"She took one of their contracts."

"_What?_"

"A boy in Windhelm who was doing the Black Sacrament."

"So Sorscha ended up taking the contract. Who did she kill? Wait, I heard about this. It was the matron of Honorhall Orphanage, wasn't it?"

Farkas nodded. "I guess she was pretty evil. Sorscha said the children cheered when they found her body."

"And now the Brotherhood has taken revenge."

"But why did they say they just wanted to talk?"

Vilkas regarded him gravely. "The Dark Brotherhood doesn't just do assassinations. They interrogate and torture prisoners for their clients."

A terrible chill washed over Farkas at the images now flooding through his head. Oh, he would make them suffer. "I gotta go."

"Do you want help?"

"I won't need it." He went back to the house and equipped his armor and weapons. Normally he wouldn't have even thought of supplies, but he was getting used to little reminders Sorscha always gave him, so he picked up the knapsack she kept packed for emergencies before leaving. The pack had bread, cheese, and dried meat; some water and potions; around fifty extra arrows; and 100 gold pieces, plenty of provisions to get him to Morthal.

If something happened to her, how was he going to remember stuff like that? Aela liked to say he wasn't the brightest soul gem in the box, and he knew she was right because he'd had to ask Vilkas to explain what she meant. But Sorscha taught him things, reminded him when he forgot, even gave him tips on how _not_ to forget, and she did it all without making him feel stupid. Even Vilkas couldn't do that. She didn't care if he wasn't smart; she loved him for what he was. Because of that, he wanted to be more, better. He wanted to make her proud. But if she was dead, there would be no point. There would be no point to _anything_ anymore.

Skulvar Sable-Hilt, who ran Whiterun's stables, had an ongoing arrangement with the Companions in which they could rent horses instead of buying them. Farkas stopped at the stables and rented the fastest horse Skulvar had, then got on the road to Morthal, grim and determined. He'd been through those swamps dozens of times but didn't remember seeing a shack, so he would stop into town and ask if anybody knew where it was. The Dark Brotherhood had better hope Sorscha was there and unharmed when he arrived.

* * *

"You mean I really _am_ in the Dark Brotherhood?" Sorscha asked incredulously.

The hooded woman shrugged. "Well, not _you_, specifically. Your mother was one of ours. You spent most of the last ten years or so living in the sanctuary with us. Oh, you did the odd job for us, but you never actually professed yourself as a full member of the order."

"But I'm still an assassin?"

"Of course, you're an assassin. You killed Grelod the Kind, didn't you? You didn't do much of that when you were with us, though; you were much better at the spy jobs. I think Fjona didn't want you getting your hands dirty like that at all, but you had a mind of your own, and she couldn't really say much, considering _her_ line of work. But be that as it may, you haven't been acting on behalf of the Brotherhood for quite some time, and the contract for old Grelod was not yours to take. The way I see it, you owe us a life."

"You lay one hair on his head, and I'll hunt you all down and" –

"Oh, just calm yourself! That's not what I meant. Look behind you."

Sorscha turned to find three people, bound, hooded, and on their knees.

"There is a contract for the life of one of the three people before you," the masked woman said. "That person cannot leave this shack alive."

The one on the left whimpered.

"Which one?"

"That is for you to decide. Kill one of them, and your debt to the Brotherhood is paid. I'll just sit here and watch...and admire."

"How exactly is that returning a life?"

"You got paid for killing Grelod, no?"

"Actually, I didn't accept the payment."

"Still, that was payment due the Dark Brotherhood. You kill one of these poor saps, and we get the money for that. Then we're even."

"Or I could just kill _you_."

"Aye, you could do that, but I'm betting you won't. I've given you information about your past, so now you're curious. What else can I tell you, hmm? Maybe I know how you can get your memory back."

"But I'm betting you don't."

She shrugged. "You're right, actually. But I _can_ tell you more about your past. And your mother. All you have to do is kill one of the three people kneeling before you."

Sorscha retrieved her daggers from the table, walked over to the prisoners, and questioned them each in turn. One was a Khajiit bandit named Vasha who, as he knelt bound before her, actually threatened to kill her. One was a very bitchy mother of six named Alea, and she furiously demanded that Sorscha let her go because she didn't have time to be tied up here. She might have been audacious, but she had spirit—and a bunch of kids who would be orphaned if Sorscha took her out. The third was a mercenary who said he was known as Fultheim the Fearless, but he was definitely _not_ fearless. He was pretty pathetic for a sell-sword, begging to be set free. Her heart went out to him as he trembled and said, "I don't want to die."

It occurred to her that it didn't matter who she killed; Astrid would slaughter the other two. But not if Sorscha could prevent it. What should she do? Should she slay one of them and fulfill her debt to the Dark Brotherhood? Or should she kill the assassin who still sat perched on the bookshelf? As she looked at the three captives, listening to them threat, complain and beg, she realized the choice was an easy one, because some people just needed killing. She walked around behind them and slashed the throat of the Khajiit.

She looked up at the masked woman. "Now we let the other two go," she insisted. The assassin stared at her for a long moment, finally nodded, and Sorscha untied them while she unlocked the door to the shack. "Now, get away from here as fast as you can," Sorscha told them.

Fultheim the Not-so-Fearless simpered and bowed, and Alea groused all the way out the door.

When they were gone, the assassin removed her hood. She was beautiful, with golden hair and eyes the color of a sunny summer sky, and though they appeared to be about the same age, Sorscha estimated that she was several years older than she looked, probably in her mid-thirties. She looked vaguely familiar, as someone she might pass on the street during a daily routine but never pay much attention to.

"Whew!" she said. "I would have killed the mother just to shut her up. I'm Astrid."

"I'd say 'nice to meet you,' but..."

Astrid chuckled. "A deal's a deal. Your debt to the Dark Brotherhood is paid. If you'd like to extend the relationship, however, you're welcome to return to the sanctuary."

"If I become a full member."

"I would be willing to continue the arrangement we had before. You do the occasional job for us, and we pay you well. No strings."

"There are _always_ strings."

Astrid shrugged. "True. But trust me, it would be beneficial for both sides. Though you may not remember, the Brotherhood has been your family, and you will be safe in our care. One or two of our brothers and sisters especially have missed you."

"I have a family."

"Who, the Companions? The Thieves' Guild? Or the Stormcloaks? I hear you made quite the mess in Whiterun."

"How do you know all this?" Sorscha asked with frustration.

Astrid smiled but didn't answer.

It was disconcerting to learn that so many people knew what she was doing, especially when _she_ didn't know what she was doing half the time. "I was talking about my husband," said Sorscha.

"Ah. Him. I know too much about you to believe for a second that you don't tell him everything. There will be no admonishing you to keep your involvement with the Brotherhood a secret from him, even on the threat of death. As I said before, you're rebellious. We would, of course, offer him the protection of the family as well."

"He wouldn't join."

"You sure about that? We've taken from the Companions before, you know. Sorscha, I'm talking about a haven, someplace familiar for you to find yourself, maybe get your memory back, and get on with your life. And I can tell you about your mother."

"You said you'd do that anyway. What happened to her?"

"Nothing too dramatic, just an assassination gone wrong. The guards got her before she got her quarry."

"Who did she try to kill?"

"I can't tell you that. Come see us at the sanctuary, and we'll talk more. It's in the Pine Forest, under the road near Falkreath, and the passphrase at the door is, 'Silence, my brother.' As for me, I want to be far away from here when your husband arrives. Somehow I don't think he'll be as forgiving as you."

"I haven't forgiven you."

"But you haven't killed me. That's a start." Astrid put her mask back on.

"Astrid?"

"Hmm?"

"I know there was no contract on the three captives. Alea and Fultheim are not to be harmed further. If they are, I'll know."

"You're threatening the Dark Brotherhood?" Astrid asked incredulously.

"Aye, I am." She stared Astrid boldly in the eyes.

Astrid laughed. "Aye, still rebellious. Done. Alea and Fultheim are safe. I'll see you at the sanctuary." She turned and slipped out the door.

Astrid had said she had told Farkas where to find her, and Sorscha had no reason to disbelieve her, so she decided to sit and wait for him. She didn't want to wait in the shack with the dead Khajiit, however, so she got her weapons and went outside to sit on the porch. It was just after sunset, not quite full dark yet. The air was cold, damp, and very quiet. As she waited, all she had to do was think. It was alarming how easily Astrid had abducted Sorscha from her bed. She had drugged her and had undoubtedly drugged Farkas as well, but surely she'd had help moving her all that way. Where were the others? And why did Sorscha care?

So her mother had been an assassin. Sorscha had spent ten years in the Dark Brotherhood's sanctuary and had apparently done work for them as well. No wonder killing was easy; she had indeed done it before. She wanted to believe Astrid was lying, but the story rang true, and the woman did look familiar. Sorscha swallowed hard in an attempt to dislodge the massive lump that had formed in her throat. She could barely breathe, and at the moment, she wasn't sure she wanted to. With the latest news, she had discovered that remaining ignorant might be preferable to knowing about her past. But the most disturbing thing about the events of the last few hours was the notion that her involvement with the Dark Brotherhood didn't really bother her. What did that say about her? Being a thief was bad enough. Despite what Farkas said, she had no illusions about her honor, or lack thereof. But an assassin? And was it really all that different from being a mercenary? Farkas hadn't seemed to think so.

Her debt was paid. There was no need to have any further contact with the Brotherhood; Astrid had assured her of that. But she had also offered her the safety and protection of a family that had known her for years. What if she got to the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary and everything came flooding back? She would have all the answers she had been looking for, and she really could get on with her life.

Far off in the distance, she heard the howl of a dragon, as if to remind her of what that life entailed. "Oh, don't worry," she said softly. "I haven't forgotten you."

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC


	16. Chapter 16 StormbladeStormcloak

**Skipping ahead a bit to the final battle at Solitude.**

* * *

Searching for Memories 16

Stormblade/Stormcloak

Solitude was in flames. Throughout Skyrim's capital city, buildings burned and toppled, and cries of terror and dismay rang out. Sorscha prayed to the divines that no innocents would be lost today. Again, Farkas stayed with the troops as she ran ahead toward Castle Dour where she was to meet Ulfric and Galmar, and she prayed he would be okay, too. In all the craziness before they stormed the city, they hadn't had a chance to say goodbye. They had taken up the practice of kissing goodbye before going into a battle or dungeon in case it was their last, and Sorscha was becoming superstitious about such things.

She fought her way through the market district, using her bow to pick off snipers on the buildings and balconies. There would be no running through the city without killing anyone this time; there were too many Imperial soldiers for that. There were more coming at her with blades than shooting at her from the buildings, so she finally had to abandon the bow and draw her swords. Galmar liked to tease her for using two swords, but she was much more comfortable with a weapon in each hand than just a sword and a shield. Besides, she was a better fighter with two blades.

As she was rounding the corner south of Castle Dour, she heard a thundering explosion from the direction of the castle, and she wondered what had blown up to make such a bang. She would have thought a blast that big would send up a massive column of smoke, but oddly, nothing rose from the area. When the boom came again, she realized it wasn't an explosion at all; it was a Thu'um. Someone was in the courtyard of Castle Dour, throwing the Unrelenting Force Shout at his enemies. There was only one other person besides the Graybeards who knew that Shout: Ulfric Stormcloak.

Sorscha had never figured out what Galmar's intentions were in testing her so at first, but in the weeks after the attack on Whiterun they had become friends. At times he treated her like a typical soldier, others he called her "little girl" (at which times she responded by calling him "grandda"), and still others he implied that his faith in her was limitless. He had also placed a great deal of trust in Farkas, especially after learning of his leadership role with the Companions, and had promoted him through the ranks very quickly. Her husband acted as Galmar's lieutenant when Sorscha was away on covert operations, and he had led the charge on a couple of occasions when they had taken over enemy forts.

Although the relationship with Galmar was easy, the one between Sorscha and the jarl was a volatile one. They were usually either patting each other on the back or yelling at each other. Sometimes the things he let Sorscha get away with astounded her. Any other leader would have sent her to the block by now, but Ulfric allowed her attitude and occasionally even let her win an argument. He had _also_ made the depth of his trust clear to her. He had given her ever-more complex assignments, many of them involving covert activity, and he was vocal in expressing his opinion that she had been instrumental in bringing them to the march on Solitude in such a short time. He had started calling her "Stormblade" and said he counted her among his kin (after which he had immediately shouted at her about something).

When it came time to march on Solitude, Ulfric had told Sorscha he wanted her to fight at his side and be there when they took Castle Dour, but they had gotten separated before they even got through the gates. With Ulfric's Thu'um, Sorscha knew he had made it to the castle. She darted for the ramp to the courtyard and only had to contend with one Imperial soldier on the way; the others were busy defending the group who had already arrived. Sorscha dispatched the soldier and rushed through the entrance to see Ulfric, Galmar, and three other Stormcloaks surrounded by a throng of Imperials. There must have been twelve of them around the five soldiers. She ran up to join the melee, aiming for the back of the nearest Imperial, when Ulfric let loose another Shout, throwing several enemies back, giving them room to spread out and clearing the way for her.

"So good of you to join us," he called.

"Wouldn't miss it for all of Tamriel." She spun in place, slashing at the nearest Imperial first with one blade and then the other.

"Show off," Galmar grunted from nearby. Sorscha flashed a grin at him.

Farther back, Ulfric Shouted again, sending his opponent flying. Sorscha, approaching the next Imperial, did the same. Over the next few minutes, they worked their way across the courtyard until they were side by side. They fought together, taking turns Shouting their enemies out of the way. Fighting alongside Ulfric was exhilarating, exciting, but there was more. There was a rightness to it, a sense that this was exactly as it should be, that the two of them had spent their entire lives working toward this moment. When Ulfric looked at her and smiled, she knew he felt the same.

The horde of Imperials dwindled; and Sorscha, Ulfric, and Galmar were able to make it inside the castle to the war room, where they found Legate Rikke guarding General Tullius. The general sat on a bench in the corner with his head in his hands. The last time Sorscha had seen him was at Helgen. He had been strong and forceful then, berating Ulfric and accusing him of treason. Now he looked tired, broken.

"Rikke, our fight is not with you," said Ulfric. "You're free to go."

The legate shook her head. "I made my choice, as you made yours." She drew her weapon and made to attack Ulfric, but Sorscha was quicker. She drew her flaming blade and destroyed Rikke with one swing.

Ulfric closed his eyes and breathed a heavy sigh. He might have no qualms about cutting down faceless Imperial soldiers, but his reaction to Rikke's death left little doubt that it hurt him.

"She was right, Ulfric," Galmar said in his usual, feeble attempt to be comforting. "She made her choice. Grieve later if you must, but right now we have _him_ to deal with."

"This is what the Thalmor wanted," said the general, implying that by defeating the Imperials in Skyrim, Ulfric had played right into their hands. "We're not the bad guys, you know."

"Well, you're certainly not the good guys," Ulfric said.

"There are no good guys and bad guys," Sorscha said softly. Ulfric, who seemed to be the only one who noticed, looked over at her sharply.

"What does that make you?" Tullius asked.

"It makes us right," said Galmar.

Sorscha stood by as Ulfric executed the general, and at his request, she took a place of honor next to him as he addressed the troops. She was relieved to see Farkas standing among the Stormcloaks and happier still to see that he had found her bow and slung it over his shoulder. She loved that man.

When the troops dispersed after his speech, Ulfric turned to Sorscha and placed his hands on her shoulders. "You earned your name today, Stormblade," he said. "And you've made me proud."

Something about the way he said she had made him proud gave her pause. There was more to the statement than just admiration for a trusted subject. Sorscha resolved to ask him about it later, but there were too many people around to say anything now. "What now?" she asked instead.

"Now we reinforce our position. Tullius may have been correct about the Thalmor encouraging this conflict, but whether it's true or not, the Empire won't just let this go. We have to be ready for retaliation." He glanced over her shoulder then looked back at her. "As for you, my dear, I believe there is a Companion who would like the pleasure of your company."

Sorscha turned to see Farkas standing behind her. He smiled, and she reciprocated.

"Your contribution has not gone unnoticed either," Ulfric said to Farkas. "From now on, we will call you Storm-Shield, for without your protection, we might have lost Sorscha many times over."

"Thank you," Farkas said uncomfortably. Unless he was fighting, teaching, or alone with Sorscha, Farkas was still very shy and reserved, and she knew the title would make him uneasy.

Ulfric turned back to Sorscha, his hands still on her shoulders. "We'll be busy for a while, but after things calm down, I would like to see you again. Please, come to the palace for dinner when you're in Windhelm." He said nothing else to her, but he kissed her forehead before going to Galmar.

Sorscha watched him in confusion for a moment before turning to Farkas and taking his hand.

"What was that about?" he asked.

"I have no idea."

"So where to?"

"Whiterun."

* * *

Farkas was quiet on the trip to Whiterun. They rarely ran out of things to talk about, but Sorscha found it hard to engage him in conversation. She finally asked him what was wrong.

"Nothing," he said, "I was just thinking."

"About..."

"Ulfric, kissing you on the forehead."

"Surely you're not jealous of Ulfric Stormcloak!" Sorscha said defensively.

"No, it's not that. You said once that you felt a connection with him. Sometimes, the way he treats you makes me think he feels one too."

"What are you saying?"

"Maybe he knows something about your past."

"If that's true, why hasn't he said something?"

Farkas shrugged. "Don't know. Maybe you should ask him."

"Maybe I will."

* * *

An eventful month passed before Sorscha and Farkas made it back to Windhelm. In that month, they slew five dragons, a dozen or so bandits, a handful of vampires, and scads of draugr. They had helped out the dean of the Bards' College in Solitude, after which he made them full members, despite the fact that neither of them could carry a tune in their knapsacks. Sorscha had also become a member of the College of Winterhold, which, though he would never admit it, might have given Farkas nightmares. She had gone there looking for information on how to find an Elder Scroll and, as Delvin might say, "Wackiness ensued." She managed to stay out of classes for the most part, but as usual, trouble was lurking in the shadows, just waiting for Sorscha, and now she and Farkas were entangled in a web of magic, history, intrigue, and _more Thalmor_.

They were tired now, and they only stopped in Windhelm to check on the house and sell a few items at the market before heading home to Riften for a much-needed rest. They decided to extend their visit by a day or so when Jorleif, Ulfric's steward, approached them in the marketplace.

"Well met, Stormblade, Storm-Shield. Jarl Ulfric has sent me to invite you to dine with him this evening."

"How did he even know we were in town?" Sorscha remarked. "We've been here less than an hour."

"The guards," Jorlief replied.

City guards gossiped more than a group of matrons in a small town. Ulfric had probably known they were there five minutes after they came through the gates.

Sorscha looked at Farkas, who nodded.

"Tell the jarl we'll be glad to accept his invitation," she told Jorleif.

"Excellent. Dinner is at sunset." The steward gave her a small bow and turned away.

"Here's your chance," said Farkas.

"Aye, but what do I say?"

"You're good with words. You'll think of something."

Dinner with Ulfric was relaxed for the most part as they compared stories about their exploits over the last month. Ulfric and Galmar, who had joined them, got a great laugh out of the tale about how they had joined the Bard's college essentially by forging a long-lost historic poem. After a while, though, Ulfric gave her a look of concern. He probed her face with those penetrating eyes and said, "Sorscha, I do believe something is troubling you. You've been very amiable, but your eyes suggest something is on your mind."

Sorscha looked over at Farkas, who made an encouraging gesture. "At Solitude," she said, "you kissed me on the forehead and said I had made you proud."

"I did."

She looked him earnestly in the eye. "Ulfric, do you know me?"

Ulfric froze for a moment, then recovered and said, "I think we should discuss this in private. Farkas, Galmar, would you excuse us?" He got up from the table and held his hand out to her, but she demurred.

"Anything you have to say, you can say in front of Farkas."

"Allow me this indulgence," he prodded her, "and you can tell him whatever you wish. My intentions are perfectly honorable, I assure you."

"It's okay, love," said Farkas.

Sorscha nodded to her husband and followed Ulfric from the great hall, through the war room, and upstairs to the residence. Once they were in his apartment, Ulfric motioned for Sorscha to sit by the fire, and he went to a sidebar and poured wine for both of them. He handed her a glass, then sat down next to her.

"Yes," he said without preamble, "I know you. I knew you when the Imperials captured you. You hadn't betrayed us. You had likely been hunting, or possibly tracking a mark. I never liked the fact that you took to stealing so easily, but I know it prevented you and your mother from going hungry many times when you were younger. "

He stroked her cheek. "You look just like her, you know," he said wistfully. "You have your father's coloring, though. Fjona had darker hair and lighter eyes."

"You knew her."

"Oh, yes. Our relationship was brief but glorious. She was a soldier in my unit during the Great War. I knew taking up with her was a mistake, but I was young and she was lovely. She had so much spirit. I tried to tell her what to do, and she boldly told me that she didn't care if I _was _the Jarl's son; at the moment, we were of equal rank and she didn't have to take orders from me." He chuckled fondly.

"Did you love her?"

"In a fashion. We both knew there more important things than our love affair, but we made the most of the time we had. We were together less than three weeks."

"What happened?"

"I was captured by the Thalmor."

"Aye, I know the story."

"I didn't see Fjona again for five years. My party was riding through Darkwater Crossing, and I saw her standing by the road, holding a small child."

"Me."

Ulfric nodded. "It didn't take long to do the calculations. You were mine."

Sorscha had known where the conversation was leading, but hearing the words made it so final, so real. She took a gulp of wine.

"It's a shock, I know."

"No, it's really not. I knew there was something."

"Fjona said she had gone into hiding when you were born. If anyone knew you were my child, it would put you in danger, so she kept it a secret. I asked her to marry me, but she said no. She disappeared from Darkwater Crossing soon after, and it was a while before I found her again. Fjona was slippery. Much like her daughter."

"But you still managed to keep track."

"Somewhat. Fjona was afraid I would use my authority as Jarl to force her to marry me or, worse, take you away from her, but I never intended to do so. She was correct; you were safer if you were anonymous. Yes, I kept track, and she even let me see you occasionally, but if I didn't want her to disappear again or take you out of Skyrim altogether, you were to never know I was your father."

"But you had so much power. You could have" –

"That was exactly her point. While I had power, Fjona had cunning. I believed that if I tried to force my hand, she would indeed disappear and I would never see you again. Thus, I played by her rules. I think you knew, though. You were always so clever."

"When did I start stealing?"

Ulfric shrugged. "Sometime in your adolescence. I had hoped you would outgrow it, or at least abandon it after you lost your memory, but you're as stubborn as you are clever."

His comment stirred something in Sorscha, and she narrowed her eyes. Before she could even pose the question, though, he said, "No, I was not responsible for your memory loss. If I ever find the person who _is_ responsible, I promise you he or she will die a slow and painful death."

"Do you know the rest?" Sorscha asked cryptically.

Ulfric chuckled. "That's an interesting way to ask. Either I know, or you pique my curiosity. Aye, I knew Fjona was in the Dark Brotherhood, and I know they have made contact with you as well."

"Does that matter?"

"Does it matter to you that I killed High King Torygg?"

Sorscha shrugged.

"What? It does?"

"Do I think it was outright murder? No. But I do think you cheated."

"Cheated?" he cried indignantly. "How?"

"You used the Thu'um, Ulfric. It should have been man to man, blade to blade, but you used an advantage he didn't have."

"It was a duel to the death, not a tavern brawl. We both used the resources we had at our disposal. He had advantages I didn't have as well."

"It was an unnecessary duel, in all likelihood. I've heard gossip that he might have sided with you had you not challenged him. Sybille and Elisif both say Torygg admired you. You may not have needed to kill him to prove your point."

Ulfric looked irritated but didn't respond.

"You asked."

"You're correct; I did. I must remember, when asking your opinion, to prepare to hear things I may not like."

"That's probably best, because I don't hold back."

"Aye, I noticed. You said in Solitude that there were no 'good guys' or 'bad guys.'"

"The civil war was waged to decide if Skyrim would continue to allow the oppression of its people or fight back. Choosing to allow the Thalmor to control them didn't make the Imperials bad guys. If anybody is the bad guy, it's the Thalmor."

"Point taken."

"Ulfric," she asked, "do you know what happened to my mother? I was told it was an assassination gone wrong, but for some reason it didn't sound right."

"Then I'm not sure I know the truth, either. I heard she was killed in a bandit raid a year or so before Helgen. It was another reason I hoped you would stop stealing."

Sorscha laughed. "I know it sounds absurd, but thieves and bandits are different."

"Aye," he said drily, "it does sound absurd."

"I have never killed an innocent. And I don't steal from the poor."

"That doesn't make it right."

"How many innocents have died in this civil war? And is it right to force the elves and Argonians to live in ghettos just because they're not Nords?"

"Just what are you implying?" he demanded.

"I'm trying to make a point. We all do bad things, Ulfric, and we're all capable of evil. We just have to look inside ourselves and decide what's acceptable."

"Is there anything else you have to say that I don't want to hear?"

"Almost assuredly, but that's for another time. I really don't want to fight right now. You know, you never answered my question."

"Would it matter to me if you joined the Dark Brotherhood? Aye, it would matter. As you have so eloquently pointed out, I'm in no position from a moral standpoint to make any judgments. I've even hired them myself. But I do not like the thought of my child joining such an organization. I want better than that for you."

Something Farkas had said to her once came to mind, and Sorscha chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"Farkas said you and I were just alike. I guess he was right."

They sat silently for a few minutes, drinking their wine and digesting what had come to light in the discussion. Finally, Ulfric said, "So what are your thoughts?"

"Eighteen months ago, I woke up on a cart bound for the executioner with no idea how I got there. Since then, I've become a Companion, I've become a werewolf"—

"You _what_?"

—"and got cured, got turned into a _vampire_ and got cured, found a husband, became thane of three holds" –

"Four."

"Huh?"

"Did you think I wouldn't name you Thane of Eastmarch?"

Sorscha smiled and rolled her eyes. "Okay, _four_ holds. I learned that not only can I kill a dragon, I can absorb its soul and speak its language; and now I find out who my father is. That's the nicest, most normal news I've had since I came to near Helgen."

"What about Farkas?"

"Shortly after we met, he told me I was beautiful. At the time, we were standing on a pile of draugr. Then he came to ask for my hand and waited for me in, literally, a den of thieves for several days while I was out getting myself cured of vampirism. My life with Farkas is wonderful, yes, but it is _not_ normal."

Ulfric laughed.

"But you already know all this, don't you? You've had someone following me."

"Does that surprise you?"

"No. It surprises me that I never spotted him, though. Where is he now?"

"I've given him the night off."

"Well, let's give him another job, okay? From now on, just ask what I'm up to, and I'll be glad to tell you."

"How can you tell me if you're lying dead in a cave somewhere or you're incinerated by a dragon? I had someone follow you purely so I could look after your welfare."

"Why didn't you come to me after my mother died?"

"Until we met at Helgen, I didn't know where you were. If I had known, I still might not have told you. Skyrim was in a state of unrest, and it would put you in danger if anyone knew you were my daughter."

"Why tell me now, then?"

"You asked. And let's face it, Sorscha, you're already in danger, and I think you like it that way. Besides, I've told no one but you."

"Galmar knows, doesn't he?"

"I haven't told him anything, but the old bear is clever, so he may suspect. I know you'll tell Farkas, but I wouldn't recommend telling anyone else. Public knowledge that you're my daughter would still be dangerous. Unless you're ready to move into the Palace of the Kings."

Sorscha laughed uncomfortably. "No, I'm not ready for that."

Ulfric took her hand and gazed sincerely into her eyes. "I know it's too late in your life to call me 'father,' but I would like very much to see you more often."

"I would like that too. I will come to visit you when I'm in town so you don't have to rely on the guards' gossip to know I'm here. Or your spy."

"And know this: if you ever need anything, all you need do is ask. I was not able to care for you when you were growing up, but I'll gladly do it now."

"I won't abuse that."

"And when you _are_ ready to move into the palace, I'll be proud to call you 'daughter.'"

Sorscha reached over and kissed his cheek. "Maybe someday I _will_ call you 'father.'"

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC


	17. Chapter 17 The Dungeon

Searching for Memories 17

The Dungeon

It was just after midnight, and the Ragged Flagon was quiet. Only the regulars were present: Delvin and Vex, Vekel, Tonilia, and that new one, the one who could change faces. She was a creepy one, and Brynjolf avoided her when he could. The thieves didn't spend as much time here lately. Since the Skeleton Key was returned to the Twilight Sepulcher, the Guild's luck had gotten better. There was a lot of work and they were starting to make a name for themselves again. Several of the thieves had set their sights on the other holds, and they were gone for a week or two at a time, returning with a bounty. Brynjolf knew they were skimming—they were thieves, after all—but they brought plenty back, so he didn't complain. As long as he didn't catch them in the act.

Unfortunately, more work for the Guild meant more work for Brynjolf, of the kind he was less than excited about. He didn't mind the administrative duties for the most part. Although he no longer needed to do so, he kept his potion stand in the marketplace, so he still got out of the Ratway every day. Some sunlight and fresh air made the mundane tasks a little less tedious. Sometimes, however, his eyes blurred and the numbers started to run together. Tonight, as he sat in the Flagon working on a ledger, he added the same column of numbers seven times and got seven different answers. He finally gave up and joined Delvin at the bar, where he sat telling Vekel the Man about a new job he had acquired.

"It's the biggest soul gem you've ever seen," Delvin was saying.

"A big soul gem, you say?" Brynjolf said as he sat down on the barstool. Vekel drew a tankard of Black-Briar mead and placed it before him. Bryn took a sip and decided he'd made the right choice to abandon the ledger for the evening.

"Aye, it's for that mage I was telling you about, Festus Krex, in the Brotherhood. He's been looking for it for a while now and hoped we'd have a line on it, but I don't know anything about it. He says it's twice as big as a grand gem, and it's used for divination."

"Divination?"

"Yeah, fortune telling, that kind of thing."

"I know what divination is," Brynjolf sneered.

"I told him I'd keep an eye out for it, but I'd never even heard of it before."

"Rare item like that should bring in quite a bit of coin," Vekel commented.

"Too right. He said he'd pay me four figures for it. I thought I'd put the word out to the Guild, see if it turns up."

"I might actually know where it is," said Brynjolf.

"You're joking!"

"When Sorscha and I went to Eastmarch while we were looking for a cure for her vampirism, she described just such a soul gem."

Delvin gave a hearty laugh and slapped Brynjolf on the shoulder. "Ho, ho! That's the best news I've heard all week! Any idea when Sorscha will be back? We can send her."

"I'll do it."

"What?"

Brynjolf took a drink of his mead, then said, "Last time she was here, she said something about helping the College of Winterhold with some big mystery surrounding an artifact they had found. It's been nearly a month since we saw her, and I don't know when she'll be back. I know where this soul gem is; I can be there and back inside of four days. Besides, I need a change of scenery. If I have to look at that ledger again anytime soon, I'm gonna go mad. I'll leave tomorrow morning; should have plenty of time to get there by nightfall. What's the matter, Del? You look worried."

"I wanted to send Sorscha 'cause Festus said getting this gem would be difficult, to say the least. It's not just the monetary value; it's the power. People would kill for this thing, and have. Whoever has it's not gonna give it up easily, and security will probably be tight. Sorscha's the best we have, in more ways than one."

Brynjolf gave Delvin a wry look. "Aye, but I _was_ the best, and I haven't been out of the game long enough to be rusty." He finished his mead and got up to leave.

"Bryn," said Vekel. Brynjolf looked back, and Vekel raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"Oh, right." Brynjolf slapped a gold piece on the bar. "Sorry about that."

"Uh-huh," Vekel said, deadpan.

Brynjolf picked up the ledger from his table and went through the false panel in the larder to the cistern. It was as quiet in there as it was in the Flagon; only Sapphire was present, and she was sitting on her cot writing in a journal. Brynjolf placed the ledger in a desk drawer and sat down at the grindstone, where he honed his dagger, an exquisite glass piece that sent a vicious shock through the victim. Sorscha had made the dagger for him as a birthday gift.

Brynjolf had figured he'd see her less after the wedding, but the marriage hadn't kept her away. In fact, they got used to seeing Farkas in the Flagon as much as Sorscha. Although he and Dirge never mended their differences, Farkas and Del had become friends. The old thief had actually visited Honeyside a few times—which was an event in itself because Del rarely left the Ratway—and they would take Farkas's boat out on Lake Honrich to fish. Delvin took a lot of ribbing, not for his friendship with Farkas but for going fishing. "A man's gotta have a hobby," he'd say, "so just sod off!"

But then they had joined the Stormcloaks. Brynjolf didn't have any political convictions; he didn't really care _who_ won the war. Sorscha, however, had always been pretty strongly in favor of the rebellion, so he wasn't surprised she had joined up. It hadn't been a shock, either, when he found out she had greatly impacted their victory. Stormcloaks, Imperials, whatever; Sorscha was a super power all on her own. Unfortunately, joining the rebellion did mean they saw less of her and Farkas.

Brynjolf missed her. Truth be known, he missed Farkas, too, but it was different with Sorscha. He had gotten over any romantic feelings he'd had for her when she had married Farkas, but it didn't change the fact that the relationship had stirred something in him he hadn't even known existed. He had friends in the Guild, and there were a few he would trust with his life, but Sorscha had taught him a different kind of trust. She was the closest confidant he'd ever had. He had told her secrets, things he'd never shared with anyone, and she had done the same with him. But he feared that as her life changed, Sorscha would drift farther away from the Guild, and he didn't want to lose what he had with her.

A spark flew up from the grindstone, reminding Brynjolf that he'd better stop thinking about absent friends and concentrate on the task at hand. He finished sharpening the blade, then went to his bunk to get some rest.

The din of half a dozen thieves milling about woke him several hours later. He donned his Nightingale armor and packed a bag. He normally wore the Thieves' Guild cuirass around the cistern, but the ghostly material was much more conducive to hiding in the shadows.

"Where are you off to, Bryn?" said Karliah, who wandered over while he was packing.

Brynjolf adored the willowy dunmer. She had been with the Guild long ago, but he'd barely known her then. Since she had returned, though, especially sharing the secret of the Nightingales with her, he had gotten to know her better and realized what he had been missing. She was sweet and soft spoken, and she had the wisdom of someone who had lived more than a century. She also had brilliant criminal mind, and a lot of the thieves liked to bounce ideas off her. In many ways, Karliah had been nearly as valuable to the Guild as Sorscha.

"I'm off to the Aalto," he told her. "Del's looking for a certain item, and I know where it is."

"That was fortuitous. I'm off as well, to Solitude this time. The Emperor's cousin is getting married, which means lots of overstuffed pockets to pick. I was thinking of taking someone with me. Any ideas?"

"Vipir's the best pickpocket we have, and I'm sure he'd love a chance to rub elbows with Skyrim's elite."

"Excellent. Be safe, Bryn. Eyes open..."

"Walk with the shadows."

She reached out and squeezed his hand, then strolled over to the archery targets, where Vipir stood talking to Sapphire.

When Brynjolf finished packing, he borrowed a bow and some arrows from Niruin. He wasn't the best archer in the world, but he wasn't bad, either. He was a good fighter, if a bit overconfident, and he felt he could probably deal with a handful of bandits on his own, or at least sneak past them. But if he encountered a bear or wolves, shooting at them from a distance was better than fighting them up close. He climbed the ladder and exited the cistern through the secret door in Riften's cemetery, then stopped in at the Bee and Barb for a sweet roll and some of Keerava's coffee, which in his opinion was the best in all of Skyrim. After breakfast, he stopped into Honeyside, to which Sorscha had given him a key, and wrote her a note.

_S,  
I'm going to the cave where you rescued the nightingale to procure the large soul gem you mentioned. Del is being a mother hen about this one, so I thought it a good idea to tell you where I'm going in case something happens.  
B_

He left the note on the table and slipped out the back door to head for Eastmarch.

* * *

The sun was just beginning to set, and a chill wind blew as Onde and Forraderi trudged up to Bonestrewn Crest. Forraderi moaned and groaned as usual, and the priest tuned him out. The trip was unpleasant enough without listening the old mage whining about how cold his feet were. Instead, Onde set his mind on more pleasant things.

Sorscha had been busy making a name for herself with the Thieves' Guild, the Stormcloaks, the College of Winterhold, and all over Skyrim as she killed dragon after dragon. But just when it seemed she could do no wrong, she had gotten caught stealing in Markarth and had to pay a hefty bounty to stay out of jail. And she had gotten married, of course. What she saw in that feeble-minded brute was beyond Onde. What could they possibly have to talk about? Onde wouldn't know, because the images in the soul gem were losing quality. He could no longer hear or see her thoughts, and much of the time he couldn't discern what she was saying when she spoke. At other times, the images were so fuzzy he could hardly see anything at all. He was terrified of what his master would do when he found out.

"You're not even listening to me!" Forraderi shouted.

"Why? Did you say something I actually wanted to hear?"

"I said it must be twenty degrees colder up here."

"Ah, so you _didn't_ say anything I wanted to hear."

"I hope he gets here soon so we can get back down where it's warm."

"Still not listening."

"Insolent Nord. You'd be dead without me. You'd do well to remember that."

The priest rolled his eyes. Forraderi had a point; he would be dead without the mage. But when he was on a tear of groaning and complaining, Onde thought death might be preferable. Besides, it worked both ways; Forraderi would be dead if not for _him_.

They arrived at the top of the hill and took shelter in the curve of the word wall, which broke the wind and allowed them to warm themselves while awaiting their master. He made them wait for hours before finally appearing when Secunda was directly overhead sometime near midnight.

Onde knelt before the master. Forraderi tried to kneel, but his knees gave out and he tumbled onto his backside. Onde stifled a laugh.

"Forgive me, master," the mage grumbled as he struggled to his knees.

"Tell me what you see of the Dragonborn," the master said without a greeting of any sort.

"Forgive me master," said Onde. It seemed they said those words more than any others. "The images in the gem have grown unclear, and my knowledge as to her whereabouts is lacking."

"As the _Dovahkiin_ grows in power, so will her resistance to the control you have over her. If she continues on the path she is now taking, she will eventually slip beyond your reach."

"What?" Forraderi asked. "What has happened?"

"She has obtained the Elder Scroll."

Onde's mouth dropped open. "No! That could ruin everything!"

"Forgive me for saying so, master," said Forraderi, "but if you had let us kill her when we had her" –

"_SILENCE_!" The master's voice was like thunder, and his minions cowered before him. "I believed there was no need to bother with a young girl who had no further ambition than picking the next pocket. I allowed her to live and had the enchantments placed on her merely as an indulgence, entertainment. But I underestimated the strength she possessed to come so far without her memories. With great power often comes arrogance. Now she must be stopped."

"Has she...read it?" Onde asked timidly.

"She has not. The Dragonborn is easily distracted, and she has not yet taken the scroll to the Throat of the World. But time is of the essence. She must die, and the Elder Scroll must be retrieved at any cost."

"Master, are you saying you want _us_ to kill her?" Onde asked. "Surely there are those more worthy of such an honor."

"Was it not you who suggested precautions? Was it not you who had foresight that not even the World-Eater possessed? Who, then, is more worthy?"

"You are more worthy, master."

"If it comes to it, I shall deal with the Dragonborn. For now, I leave the task in your capable hands."

"But master, how will we accomplish such a quest?"

The master gave a soft, chilling laugh but did not reply. Instead, with a flourish and a rush of wind, he was gone.

"Well, I guess that's that," Forraderi said as he crawled over to the word wall and used it as a brace to get to his feet.

"What do you mean, 'that's that'?" said Onde as he stood up. "He wants us to kill the Dragonborn."

"Which is what I said we should do in the first place!"

"Well, the 'first place' was two years ago. Do you know how powerful she's grown in two years?"

Forraderi chuckled. "I believe the young Nord priest is afraid. She may be strong, but she has her weaknesses. If we can get her into the lair, I've got a little something I've been working on. Look in that crystal of yours and see if you can't figure out where she is, then get her here."

"How?"

"Figure something out! Do I have to do everything?"

Forraderi started back down the mountain and Onde followed, glaring daggers into the Breton's back. He'd said he had been working on something. Well, Onde had projects, too, and when all this was over, he would make the old mage beg for death.

* * *

The trip to Eastmarch had been uneventful, but navigating the Aalto made up for it. Just after sunset, Brynjolf stumbled upon a giant's lair. He was no match for the beast, so he ran for his life. He might have been fast, but the giant's legs were long, and as his stamina started to run out, he began to think he wasn't going to get away. He passed a series of the flat, tiered rocks and veered quickly to the left, ducking beneath the shelf they provided. The giant couldn't turn as quickly, and he went several steps before stopping and coming back, giving Brynjolf time to scramble around the corner and tuck himself into a niche. He cursed his long, Nordic legs and wished to the gods he had stood on the Agent of Stealth circle in the Ebonmere instead of the Agent of Subterfuge. He never hid in the shadows anymore, he had said. Yet here he was. He hadn't even thought of packing an invisibility potion. Maybe he _was_ rusty.

Brynjolf held his breath as the giant stomped around the shelves for a while and even bent to look beneath a few of them. The beast growled and snarled, his voice rumbling and gravelly, and Brynjolf realized the giant wasn't growling; was talking. He wondered what giants talked about. Mammoths? Female giants? _"Hey, Og, did you see the tattoos on Marge?"_ Well, he knew what this one was saying. _"Here, little Nord. Come out so I can crush you with my impossibly huge club."_

After what seemed an eternity, the giant gave up and meandered away. Brynjolf waited until long after his crashing footsteps finally faded before emerging from his hiding place, getting his bearings, and heading toward the rocky hill near the center of the sulfur flats. The dragon mound was just beyond the hill, and the rock formation leading to the lair was a little farther. A dragon circled nearby, and Bryn darted from cover to cover, never staying out in the open long enough for it to spot him. He took the long way around Bonestrewn Crest in case the dragon decided to pay a visit. It was near midnight when he finally stepped into the alcove with the hidden door, and he sat down and leaned against the wall, panting with near exhaustion. _I am too old for this shit,_ he thought._ If I make it out alive_, _I am never leaving the Ragged Flagon again!_

After taking a moment to catch his breath, he got up, found the latch, and slipped inside the door. The halls were long, narrow, and well-lit, as Sorscha had said, but they weren't quiet. Somewhere deep in the dungeon, someone moaned in pain, their voice rising periodically to a high-pitched scream. It was far, but the long, narrow tunnels channeled the sound, amplifying the cries. The screams muffled his movement, but they also made it harder for him to hear if anyone was approaching. As he neared a doorway cut into the otherwise undisturbed corridor, he did hear movement. He pressed himself against the wall and held his breath. A man stepped out of the room and headed away from him up the hall. This was a new development; Sorscha said she hadn't seen anyone but the priest and the mage. Bryn would have to keep a better eye out for others. The room itself contained a rack and a set of manacles bolted to the wall, but no one was being held there. He stepped past the door and continued on.

In the room with the arcane enchanter, Brynjolf found a vampire shackled to the altar. He was badly beaten, weak and pale, and his eyes glowed feral red. A bucket of blood sat on the altar, just out of his reach.

"Please, kill me," he whispered.

Brynjolf obliged without a word, plunging his dagger into the vampire's heart. He died silently with a contented smile on his face. Somewhere deep in the dungeon, the prisoner screamed again. Bryn continued on, dreading what he would find next.

Next, however, was the small room containing the soul gem. The perch where the nightingale had sat was still in the room, along with the table and empty chair. Delvin had been right; the soul gem was enormous. It glowed pink, as most soul gems did, but this one gave off even more light than others. Brynjolf gazed into it to see a hazy image of two people walking down the road. The figures were faint, but they were easy to recognize: Sorscha and Farkas. Sorscha had said sometimes she felt she was being watched. Maybe the priest and the mage had been spying on her this whole time. Was the gem tuned specifically to Sorscha, and did the Festus Krex know that? If so, why did he want to keep an eye on her? Perhaps Bryn would take the soul gem but have Del tell Festus he hadn't found it. It didn't seem the mage actually thought they would find it anyway. He could hide it away so that no one could spy on her.

He picked the gem up and stuffed it in his knapsack, making it bulge at the seams, then went to the door. He stopped at the opening and carefully stuck his head out into the hallway to make sure the corridor was empty before he stepped out of the room. It wasn't. A robed Nord and a shabbily dressed thrall stood just outside the door. The priest smirked at him.

"Big mistake, thief," he said drily. He raised a glowing hand and cast a greenish light at Brynjolf.

When the light passed over him, a terrible weight settled into his muscles. It was like he suddenly weighed 600 pounds, and he couldn't move. He collapsed and hit his head on the stone wall. His vision blurred, but he stayed conscious long enough to see the thrall's foot come down at his face. After a moment of intense pain, the world faded to black.

* * *

Brynjolf woke up half-naked with a pounding head, chained to a wall in a dimly lit room. There was no way to tell how long he'd been unconscious, but by the way his shoulders and back ached, he suspected it had been several hours.

The room was long, narrow, and filled with torture equipment. His set of shackles was one of two, and three cages rested on the opposite wall. On one end of the chamber stood a rack with a glowing brazier at the foot, and at the other was a large table with a smaller one next to it. The smaller table held all sorts of implements for inflicting pain; the bigger table held another vampire. She was covered in blood, fangs protracted and eyes glowing, and she grimaced in pain. When she noticed Bryn was awake, she said, "What'd they get you for?"

"Stealing. You?"

"Guess," she said sarcastically.

The priest, mage, and thrall came into the room. He could see now that the thrall was a zombie, and the Breton mage didn't look much more alive. He was very old, pale and haggard, and he stank. His robes were stained with blood and what looked like pea soup, and his hair was stringy and greasy. The Nord was younger, fit and healthy but badly scarred. He gave Brynjolf a friendly smile.

"Ah, you're awake," he said amicably. "You Nightingales serve Nocturnal right? Lady Luck?"

"How did you know" –

"I know everything, Brynjolf. But Lady Luck isn't smiling on you right now, is she? She's smiling on _us_."

"What do you plan to do?"

"Do? Isn't it obvious? We plan to use you to lure the Dragonborn here. When she hears we have you, why, she'll come running."

Brynjolf shook his aching head. "Sorscha knows a trap when she sees it. She'll realize that I'm dead anyway, and she won't come."

"He's right," said the mage. "Let's just kill him now."

"You're bluffing, and I know it," said Bryn.

"Of course he is," the priest said smugly, "because you're wrong. She won't be able to resist helping you. You're her dear one. So, so pretty, aren't you? If not for that Companion, she'd be yours, wouldn't she? But you never had a chance. You must hate him for that. If you're a good boy, I'll let you watch me flay him alive."

"How do you—oh, the soul gem. How long have you been watching her?"

"Oh, for a couple of years now. I've seen things" –he stopped and sighed– "things you just can't imagine."

"Sweet Nocturnal, you're in love with her!"

The mage looked over at the priest sharply and said, "You idiot!"

"You don't know what love is, thief," the priest spat. "Besides, it doesn't matter what I feel; she has to die. And when she comes for you, we'll be ready."

Brynjolf chuckled.

"What could you possibly be laughing at?"

"She's going to turn you inside out."

With that, the thrall stepped forward and punched Bryn in the face, and blackness took over again.

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC


	18. Chapter 18 One Touch

Searching for Memories 18

One Touch

Every time Sorscha started to climb a new mountain, it looked higher and more precipitous than the one before it. She peered up at what she was sure was the steepest one yet. Or maybe she was just getting tired of climbing.

"You've been to the top of the Throat of the World," said Farkas, understanding what she was thinking.

"Don't you find it the least bit intimidating?"

"_I've_ been to the top of the Throat of the World, too."

Sorscha made a face at her husband and stepped off the path, and Farkas followed closely behind. He was wearing the armor she had borrowed from the Blades and didn't climb as well as she did, and after a while he fell behind. She waited on a plateau for him to catch up. She loved watching Farkas. How anyone could move gracefully in that heavy, steel armor was beyond her, but he managed it. He had learned a bit about stealth from following her all over Skyrim, and he wasn't as clunky as he once was. When he wasn't wearing heavy armor, he could move almost as quietly as Sorscha.

She scolded herself, as she did every day, for stupidly shutting him out of her life. Having Farkas with her made her stronger, and as a team they were a force to be reckoned with, instinctively working in tandem to defeat the fiercest foes. But she was superstitious. She had used the word "unstoppable" once and Farkas had ended up with a serious injury, so she didn't court disaster with superlatives anymore.

As he reached the plateau, Sorscha saw movement out of the corner of her eye. She looked more carefully to see a horned headdress and the outline of a bow.

"Hey, Wolf," she whispered.

"What is it?" he replied.

"Forsworn." She nodded toward the archer in the bushes.

Just as she was raising her bow to aim, the Forsworn shot. The arrow hit, and her left arm burned with pain. She yanked the arrow out with a yelp and, ignoring the sting of the laceration, took aim, dropping him with one arrow.

"You're mine!" a female voice said from close by. She leapt out from behind a bush and attacked Farkas.

"I'll tear your head off!" he snarled as he engaged the woman, wielding another item Sorscha had pilfered from the Blades, a katana she had enchanted to freeze and paralyze the enemy.

Sorscha switched to her swords as a briarheart appeared from behind a rock with a greatsword that sizzled with lightning. She had her own sword of shock, though; Dragonbane was in her left hand as usual, and the flaming blade was in her right, waiting to bring a world of hurt on the shaman. The big weapon slowed him down, and Sorscha darted past the blade and tore into his flesh. He managed to get in one good strike before he died, barely cutting her skin but laying a fresh slice in her Nightingale armor. "I just got this fixed!" she griped at the dead Breton.

She turned to see Farkas administer a final blow to the woman, who lay unmoving at his feet. Farkas thought it was unfair to render them helpless like that, but it didn't keep him from killing them. After all, when the paralysis wore off and they got back up, they would try to kill him.

They stood back to back, scanning the surrounding area for more Forsworn, but it seemed to be just the three. Sorscha knelt to loot the briarheart's body, and Farkas appraised the female, whose clothing was quite revealing.

"I think you should take _her_ armor," he said.

"I wouldn't be caught dead in that thing."

"Maybe you could just wear it around the house."

Sorscha laughed. "Aye, and I'd smell like the animal she took it from."

"Well, okay, if you're sure."

She got up from the dead Forsworn, wrapped her arms around Farkas's neck and kissed him, then started up the mountain again.

"Don't you think it's strange that there are Forsworn this close to Whiterun?" Farkas commented. The tribes were usually isolated to The Reach, but this area was well within Whiterun Hold.

"We'll mention it to Vignar. With the dragons and vampires infesting the hold, I'm sure he'd rather not have to deal with the threat of the Forsworn." Far above, at the top of the mountain, a dragon howled. "Aye, I know. We're coming. Don't get your scales in a twist."

While they were working for the College of Winterhold, Sorscha had seen things she couldn't have imagined. The trek through Blackreach, the visually stunning underground domain built by the dwarves and now inhabited by the falmer, had been a rare adventure, even for the likes of Sorscha and Farkas. The colossal oculory that held the Elder Scroll was equally remarkable. Now that they had the scroll, things were just going to get more bizarre. She was supposed to take it to the Throat of the World, stand in a rift in time, and read the scroll, which was sure to have unpredictable effects.

They had received a letter from Vignar, the Jarl of Whiterun, when they had stopped in Windhelm after retrieving the Elder Scroll; a dragon was terrorizing the countryside just west of the city, and he was requesting the Dragonborn's aid to vanquish the beast. Sorscha had been overjoyed. It would be good to have some normalcy.

Sorscha chuckled at the thought. What kind of world did she live in where killing a dragon was normal?

The grade leveled off at the top, and the dragon was waiting for them. He dove and breathed frost at them, and Sorscha and Farkas sent a salvo of arrows as he climbed to the sky. When he came down again, he saw the Elder Scroll, which, being too big to put in a knapsack, was strapped to Sorscha's back. "The scroll!" he exclaimed. He snapped his jaws shut as he flew by in an attempt to wrench it from her back, but it was a small target and he missed. In the meantime, Farkas got off another shot and hit him in the eye. The dragon soared into the sky, stopped in midair and plummeted to the ground, where Sorscha killed him with her next arrow.

She pulled a bone, scale, and a handful of gold pieces from his body as he disintegrated. This was upwards of forty dragons; the rush of warmth and sense of presence were old hat to her now, and Sorscha barely noticed anymore. Once she had absorbed the soul, she went to find the treasure chest. There was always a chest in a dragon's lair. It was just too bad there was no word wall. Though killing dragons didn't excite her anymore, she still got a thrill when she learned a new Shout. She found the chest and opened it, but instead of reaching into it, she tried a new spell she had learned at the college. Thrusting her hand out, she focused her will on a large sack of gold. The effort was monumental—she still hadn't mastered the spell—but after a moment the sack started to shake in place and then flew into her hand.

"I did it!" Sorscha squealed.

"Good job," said Farkas with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. He had become more tolerant of magic over the last weeks, but it still made him uneasy, especially since she was starting to embrace it.

Sorscha examined the rest of the chest's contents and decided there was nothing else worth lugging back to Whiterun. "Let's head to town," she said, and they started down the mountain.

They made it to Whiterun at sunset, and Farkas started dinner while Sorscha went up to Dragonsreach to report to Vignar, who expressed his appreciation and gave her a nice bounty for the dragon. Back at Breezehome, she and Farkas had supper together and then spent the night in each other's arms.

Before heading home to Riften, they spent a day at Jorrvaskr. Farkas rarely complained, but Sorscha knew it was hard being away from his beloved brother, and it had been weeks since they had seen Vilkas. The twins spent several hours sitting in a corner in animated conversation. With Sorscha and Farkas's departure, the Companions were short-handed. They still took jobs, but for the most part they were in a rebuilding period. They had taken on a few new whelps, and the others were glad not to be at the bottom anymore. Eorland Gray-Mane was thinking of retiring; his son Avulstein, returned from the war, was spending his days at the Skyforge in preparation to take over the business. The biggest gossip, according to Njada, was that Vilkas and Ria were embroiled in a very steamy romance. The couple said the reports were exaggerated, but the look on their faces told Sorscha that Njada's story might be more accurate than they cared to admit. Being the only werewolf, Aela had become even more solitary, and she spent most nights away from the mead hall, hunting. Even with all the changes, however, Jorrvaskr still felt the same. The spirit of Ysgramor infused the atmosphere, and when they were fighting, drinking, and sharing songs, all was right with the world.

The trip back to Riften was rough. The roads were thick with vampires, and they fought no less than five broods between Whiterun and Riften. They braved a violent thunderstorm south of the Aalto, in which all their belongings were drenched. Fortunately, the Elder Scroll was well protected, and it appeared undamaged. Sorscha wasn't about to take it out of its container to make sure, though. She had read the books, and she knew that to read the scroll without the proper preparations would likely render her blind. Thus, she just had to hope water hadn't seeped in. It was nearly midnight when the city walls finally came into view. They were exhausted, and when they let themselves into Honeyside, they didn't get farther than the bedroom. Sorscha locked the Elder Scroll in a chest, and she and Farkas undressed and snuggled into bed. Farkas fell asleep almost instantly, and Sorscha wasn't too far behind. They had been away from home far too long, and it was so good to be warm and safe in her own bed.

As the morning sun shone in the kitchen windows and illuminated the cottage, Sorscha awoke slowly to a gentle tickling sensation. Farkas often woke her caressing her arm or back. This morning, as she lay on her stomach, he ran his fingertips lazily over her back and bottom. The house was warm; he had already gotten up and built a fire. It was a wonderful way to wake up. "Hmm, that feels nice," she moaned sleepily.

"How'd you sleep?"

"Good. You?"

"All right," he said noncommittally. "I was thinking about something."

"What's that?"

"That dragon was very interested in the Elder Scroll."

"He was, wasn't he? What do you think that was about?"

"Maybe he knew why we had it."

"Do you think Alduin knows we have it?"

"I don't know how he would, but there are those who say he's a god."

"I know I should get this over with, but Wolf, I'm not ready to go to the Throat of the World and read that thing."

"Why not?"

She paused and drew a quivering breath. "Because I'm afraid."

He leaned over and kissed her shoulder. "You like to say courage isn't being without fear; it's overcoming your fears. That doesn't mean it's easy. Take a little time if you need it. Meanwhile, we'll kill as many dragons as we have to."

Sorscha propped up on her elbows. "You hungry?"

"I could eat."

"Sweet or salty?"

"Salty."

"Ham and eggs it is." She kissed Farkas, and they climbed out of bed. Sorscha threw on a dress; Farkas pulled on a pair of trousers, not bothering to put on a shirt.

"There's a note on the table," he said. "I guess it's from Brynjolf."

Sorscha found the note on the table and read. "Looks like Bryn is working in the field," she said. "Do you remember me telling you about the large soul gem the priest was staring into?"

"Uh-huh."

"He went to steal it. It doesn't say when he wrote the note, though; we should head down to the Flagon after breakfast and see how he fared."

They didn't find Brynjolf in the Ragged Flagon. Instead, they found a very agitated Delvin Mallory.

"It's been more than a fortnight since he left," Del told them. "Karliah, Dirge, and Niruin went looking for him, but he's disappeared. He told Karliah he was going to the Aalto, but that's all he said. They're out there now, searching again."

"Do you think he got arrested?"

"Brynjolf? Not a chance."

"Well, I know where he went; he left me a note. He said you were being a mother hen."

"And I was right, wasn't I? The client told me this might be a dangerous assignment, but Bryn figured he could handle it. I hope he hasn't gone and gotten himself killed."

"Don't talk like that," Sorscha snapped.

"When do we leave?" Farkas asked.

"Now."

* * *

Sorscha and Farkas had a dragon to deal with on the Aalto, but then they found the hidden door just as Sorscha had left it. The first thing they heard when she pulled the latch was a woman's screaming.

"That's new," Sorscha mused. "Dear Talos, I hope he's not here." The passageway was too narrow for a bow, so she pulled Dragonbane. Farkas drew his blade as well, and they crept into the tunnel.

The screaming continued as they made their way through the endless corridor. Sorscha wondered again why so few doors opened off the tunnel. The first room was nearly a quarter mile from the entrance. How could being so far away from the surface be beneficial? She hadn't explored past the room with the nightingale when she was here before; perhaps there were other exits. She stopped as she neared the first door and listened for movement in the room. There seemed to be none, and she cautiously peeked around the opening. Except for a set of shackles and a torture rack, the room was empty.

As they started to continue down the hall, the screams cut off abruptly. The silence was deafening. Then a voice, faint and weak, with an unusual accent. "You bastard."

Sorscha's heart sank. She looked back at Farkas, who scowled at her, his blue eyes burning. She turned and moved on.

As they approached the altar room, they could hear singing. They found a short, gray-haired man in filthy, bloody rags, trilling merrily as he cleaned blood off the altar. Sorscha stepped up behind him and cleared her throat, and the man turned around. He was an Imperial in his mid-fifties, his face puffy and soft with a bulbous nose and thick, bushy eyebrows. His eyes were cloudy and contained a blank expression, as if he were looking _through_ her, not _at_ her. After a moment, he focused on Sorscha and smiled. "You're here. Good." Then he nodded toward Dragonbane, and Sorscha understood his meaning. She wasn't about to take his life so much as set him free. Without a reply, she swung the sword and sent the man's head flying.

The giant soul gem still occupied its place on the table in the tiny room, its pink glow illuminating the bare walls and empty perch. When Farkas saw the gem, he silently mouthed, "Wow."

They passed another room similar to the one with the soul gem, but it was empty and dark. The passage made a sharp left turn shortly thereafter. Four closed doors stood to the left, and there were two openings to the right. Sorscha peered in the first open doorway to find a house of horrors. Three cages rested in one corner, and a rack and large table stood in the other. A woman lay dead on the table, eyes open and unseeing. Bolted to the back wall were a set of shackles and one ring holding a set of heavy chains and wrist cuffs. Brynjolf lay on the floor wearing only a pair of ragged breeches; his hands were manacled and his eyes were closed.

Sorscha ran in and knelt before him. He was emaciated, pale and drawn, and his face and body were covered with scrapes and bruises. His entire left side was purple and black. She stroked his cheek and said, "Brynjolf?"

He opened bleary eyes and smiled at her, but the smile was short-lived. "It's a trap," he said as he carefully pushed himself into a sitting position.

"No surprise there. We've got to get you out of here." She pulled a set of lockpicks out of her boot and went to work on the shackles while Farkas kept a lookout.

"They were holding me to draw you here," said Brynjolf.

"What did they do to you?"

"One of them experiments on vampires, and he had to feed them."

"Oh, gods, Bryn. But they didn't do that draining your blood," she said, pointing to his ravaged left side. The first cuff snapped open, and she went to work on the second.

Brynjolf chuckled. "I managed to get loose a couple of days ago. Picked the pocket of one of the thralls, and he had a key. I didn't get out, obviously, but I got a look around before they caught me. One of the thralls is an orc, and they let him have a go at me. I may have a few broken ribs."

"I'm so sorry I didn't get here sooner."

"None of this is your fault, lass. Don't even think it."

"You said you looked around. Is there a back way out?"

"There must be. They have labs down the hall, and they all have back doors. I figure when they finish with their...subjects, they take their bodies out the back way."

"There's a cave to the west of here," said Farkas.

"Maybe the back door leads to the cave, then."

"Who _are_ these people, Bryn?" Sorscha asked.

"I have no idea. They keep talking about their master, but I haven't seen anybody else. Just the priest, the mage, and a handful of thralls."

"Undead?"

Brynjolf shook his head. "I thought so at first, but I think they're under some kind of control spell."

Sorscha got the second lock open and Brynjolf massaged his aching wrists, then she helped him to his feet. He was so weak, he could barely stand. She put her arm around his waist, and he gasped in pain. "I'm sorry!" she whined.

"Don't worry about me; I can make it. We have to hurry."

Before she turned around, Sorscha heard Farkas take a step, the telltale _whoosh_ of a spell being cast, and then a crash as Farkas fell. She turned to see him lying prone at the feet of the priest, who was aiming at her with the green light of a paralysis spell glowing in his palms. She drew a breath to Shout at him, but he released the spell before she could utter the first word. She crumpled to the floor, and Bryn dropped next to her with an agonized wail. Even in pain, though, he was thinking. He rolled onto his side and curled into a ball, hiding his hands as he surreptitiously reached for her hand and palmed the lockpicks.

The priest came and stood over Sorscha, smiling. "See, Brynjolf?" he said, not taking his eyes from her. "I told you she would come." He raised his hands and cast a spell, and a black haze filled her vision as consciousness slipped away.

* * *

She awoke shackled to the wall in a different room, which contained an alchemy lab, some shelves holding potions and ingredients, a desk, and a small altar with a smaller version of the dragon's head sculpture in the altar room. Her armor had been removed and replaced with ragged prisoner's clothes similar to those she had been wearing when she awakened on the cart bound for Helgen. She was gagged. The priest stood in front of her.

"What did you do to them?" she muttered through the gag.

"Nothing at all," he replied. "They're perfectly fine."

"You lie."

He shrugged. "Very well, not _perfectly_ fine, but they're alive. I'm sorry to have to bind you like this, but I'm sure you understand that it's necessary. Can't have you breathing fire at us, now, can we?"

Sorscha released a barrage of curses, all muffled by the gag.

The priest chuckled. "You've always had so much spirit. And I think you've grown even lovelier." His smile faded, and he gazed at her with adoration. He stepped forward impulsively and caressed her cheek.

When the priest touched her, Sorscha heard a sound almost like glass breaking. The priest jerked his hand away, an expression of alarm on his face, but it was too late. He had made a terrible mistake, and he knew it.

Because Sorscha remembered.

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC


	19. Chapter 19 Memories

Searching for Memories 19

Memories

Sorscha realized now why she felt so safe with Ulfric Stormcloak. He had been a major part of her life since she was five years old. In fact, her earliest memory was of being nestled in her ma's arms, watching on the side of the road when he and his soldiers came riding through her village, which Sorscha now knew as Darkwater Crossing. The big, beautiful man in the fur coat had seen her and her ma and stopped. Sorscha remembered kindness in his eyes and a warm smile, but she also remembered her ma being afraid of him. While Sorscha played with a doll in a corner of their tent, she pretended not to pay attention while her ma argued with the man, whom she called Ulfric. She was afraid Ulfric would take Sorscha away. Ulfric ultimately left the village, and Sorscha and her ma had gone back to their lives. Ma had been nervous after that, jumpy, and she held out for two long years before fleeing Darkwater Crossing.

They moved around a lot over the next five or six years and spent time in every village in the eastern half of Skyrim. Fjona did what she could to support them, working in mines or helping farmers tend their crops, but times were hard and they often went hungry because she couldn't find work. She hunted, but even that didn't always produce a meal. After a while, she decided to use the skills she had learned as a soldier, and she became a blade for hire. The money was better, but unfortunately it meant occasionally leaving Sorscha alone for days at a time.

Sorscha was a smart girl, easily distracted and easily bored. It didn't take very long at all for her to start making money on her own, and by less than legal means. Stealing was easy. It was a simple to slip in and out of a house or shop, especially when the adults were involved in a conversation. She learned how to pick a pocket early on as well. She was small and people tended to ignore her, and Sorscha used it to her advantage. She made more money as a thief than Fjona did as a mercenary.

Ulfric found them again when Sorscha was ten. She and Fjona were living in a mining camp somewhere in The Pale, and he rode into the camp like he owned it. Once again, Sorscha pretended not to listen to the discussion, fading into a dark corner with her nose buried in a book. She would have thought Fjona would pick up on the fact that looking at the book was unusual because she didn't read, but her ma was preoccupied and didn't notice. She begged Ulfric not to take Sorscha away or force her to marry him, and Ulfric assured her he had no intention of making her do anything she did not want to do. Anonymity was best; they would be safer that way. All he asked was to be allowed to see Sorscha from time to time.

Why in the name of Talos would Ulfric Stormcloak want to see her? She didn't know much about him, but she did know he was the Jarl of Wilhelm, or something like that. Sorscha couldn't imagine why he would possibly have any interest in her. Still, Fjona agreed to let him visit. They didn't stay in the camp much longer, but no matter where they went, Ulfric showed up about every four months and spent time with Sorscha. He was kind, bringing her gifts and showing real interest in her activities, and he told her things about himself and his life as Jarl.

When Sorscha was thirteen, Fjona was recruited by the Dark Brotherhood, and Sorscha felt they had finally found a home. This group of cutthroats, murderers, and assassins welcomed them with open arms and embraced them as one of their own, and they began Sorscha's education. Babette, a 300-year-old vampire, taught her how to read and write, and she became Sorscha's best friend. Life was good, but it wasn't perfect, of course. Fjona had given her a lot of freedom growing up and she was used to being on her own, and she clashed with a few of the members of the Brotherhood who wanted to teach her discipline. Over time she did learn discipline and responsibility, but she did it on her own terms and when she chose to do so, not when Astrid or some of the others thought it was proper. Arnbjorn taught her a bit about smithing and hand-to-hand combat, Veezara taught her to use a bow and a sword, and Babette gave her alchemy instruction. She enjoyed making weapons and potions, but she took to fighting as easily as she had taken to stealing. The Argonian would take her to the woods or burial crypts to practice on frostbite spiders or draugr, but Fjona refused to let Sorscha take any contracts. She did eventually kill a human because the pine forest was crawling with bandits, but she helped the Brotherhood in other ways.

The order had once gotten their contracts from the Night Mother, a spirit entity who heard the Black Sacrament and passed the information on to the assassins through a Listener; but there hadn't been a Listener in years, so they had to rely on rumors. Fortunately, gossip ran rampant through Skyrim, and news traveled fast. When rumors came up about someone performing the Black Sacrament, the Brotherhood's leader would send Sorscha to get the details. She also took other types of jobs that didn't involve assassination—tailing a contract, stealing important documents, et cetera—anything that necessitated stealing or sneaking but not killing. By the time she was sixteen, she had been to every major city in Skyrim.

She didn't see Ulfric as often after they moved into the sanctuary, but Fjona did take her to Windhelm to see him about once a year. After a while, she figured out why he was so interested in her. He was obviously her father, although Fjona refused to admit it was true. Sorscha happened to be in Windhelm on her seventeenth birthday, so she decided to pay the jarl a visit. She strolled up to the doors of the Palace of the Kings, stepped inside, and marched through the great hall and right up to the throne, where he sat talking to his housecarl about some political business Sorscha had no interest in. When he looked up and saw her, his eyes widened.

It was the exact same expression as the one that had crossed his face when she had walked in a year ago.

Sorscha went to see him on her own after that, and she visited him whenever she was in Windhelm. Fjona didn't like it and tried to forbid her to go, but Sorscha had long since developed a mind of her own and pretty much did whatever she pleased. Though Ulfric didn't say anything about her involvement with the Brotherhood, he was very vocal about her being a thief. When he would berate her for stealing, she would nod and say, "Okay, Ulfric, you're right. I won't steal anymore." He never believed her; she couldn't imagine why...

She also remembered how her mother had died, and it had nothing to do with a bandit raid or a botched assassination. The leader of the Brotherhood had been killed, and Fjona and Astrid had vied for the position. The conflict had finally come to a fight, and Astrid had prevailed with a dagger in Fjona's throat. Sorscha had left the Dark Brotherhood after that and spent the next several on her own while she considered going to Riften to join the Thieves' Guild.

When Sorscha looked back now, she remembered Farkas as well. She had only seen him once, but she had taken notice even then. She had been away from the Brotherhood for a year or so at the time. She walked into Warmaiden's to sell a couple of pieces she had looted from some dead draugr, and he and Vilkas were there, talking to War-Bear. The identical twins looked more alike then, both of them clean shaven. They were remarkable due to the fact that twins were so rare, but also because of their silvery-blue eyes, which looked almost white in the torchlight of the smithy. Farkas had stared at her then, too, and Sorscha was uncomfortable being under such scrutiny. "What are you looking at?" she challenged him. He silently looked away.

She knew this priest, too. His name was Onde, and he worshipped dragons. He had captured her once before with a paralysis spell, evidently one of his favorites. She had been twenty-five at the time, and she was standing atop Bonestrewn Crest when he and his comrade had approached. It was sunset, and she stood in the crescent of the word wall, marveling at the glyphs that glowed before her. The world had gone dark except for one image, which shone like a beacon in the night, and the wall had whispered the word _"Fo!"_ to her. _Fo_ meant _frost_. There was a similar wall in the Dark Brotherhood's sanctuary, but it had never behaved this way, and she certainly didn't understand any of the words on that wall. This was dumbfounding.

She had been so distracted by the tableau before her that she hadn't even heard the two men approaching behind her. They came to a stop next to her, one on each side, gaping at the glowing letters.

"It can't be," the handsome Nord priest muttered in awe. He turned to look at Sorscha, eyes wide, and she noticed the scars on his face. "Where did you come from?" he asked her.

"I thought I'd come up here to spend the night away from the giants, and—hey! I could ask the same of you."

"I'm Onde," he said. "This is my associate, Forraderi. And you're"—

"You still didn't tell me where you came from."

"We're here to meet our master."

"I should probably go, then."

Forraderi reached out and grabbed her arm roughly. "I don't think so, little girl. You stay right here."

Onde still gawked at her, and he whispered a single, profound word: "Dragonborn."

Suddenly, a great blast of wind blew over them, and the moons were blotted out by an immense shadow. The ground shook, and a monster set down atop the wall. The great lizard was like nothing she had ever seen, at least in person, anyway. Oh, she had seen pictures, but none of them had done justice to the titanic creature before her. Black scales covered a bony skeleton, and leathery, bat-like wings stretched out at least fifty feet. It glowered at her balefully, its red eyes boring into her soul.

Sorscha screamed and tried to pull away from Forraderi, but he held tight and Onde took her other arm. "Let me go!" she cried, and she brought her foot down hard on Forraderi's. He cursed and released her, and she swung a fist at Onde, who also let go. She fled toward the slope, but she was hit by a spell that sent her tumbling end over end. She couldn't move; she could only look on in terror as the dragon opened its mouth and, through teeth as big as she was, spoke.

"What is this?" it demanded.

"It is a miracle, master," said Onde. "May I present the Dragonborn!"

The dragon laughed, and the reverberation chilled Sorscha to the bone. "You are mistaken, Onde."

"The wall, master," Forraderi said. "It spoke to her."

The monster tapped a clawed foot on the rock wall and regarded her. "What say you, girl? Are you _Dovahkiin_, Dragonborn?"

"Ah..." was all she could manage in her paralyzed state.

"We must kill her now," Forraderi declared. "She cannot be allowed to continue. Your great plans"—

"_SILENCE!_ This child is no threat to me. Killing her is a waste of time for one such as I."

"Then let us"—

The dragon glared at Forraderi, who said, "Forgive me, master."

"'The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn,'" the wyrm mused. "Yet the prophecy says nothing about events that will occur between them. You wear dark clothing, girl, and a dagger at your belt. Are you an assassin? A thief, perhaps? The divines made a poor choice when choosing you as _Dovahkiin_. Yes, to destroy you now would be most prudent, but I find myself curious. How will a thief grow to be hero of the world? Go on your way, girl. Learn what you can and we shall see if you are worthy."

"If you will permit me, master," said Onde, "we should keep an eye on her. I have a viewing gem that I can enchant so we can observe her. Also, although you sense no threat, it might be advisable to give her a handicap."

"Such as..."

"I have a spell that will erase her past. She will remember nothing of this night."

"Hmm." The dragon tapped his talon on the wall again, mulling the idea over.

"Uh-uh!" Sorscha grunted.

"Take _all_ her memories," he proposed.

"All?" Onde repeated.

"She shall not know who she is. Let us see how she fares in the world with only her instincts." He chuckled wickedly.

"It shall be done, master," said Onde.

With that, the great dragon took flight. He circled the mountaintop a few times before soaring away over the Aalto.

"He didn't tell us why he summoned us in the first place!" Forraderi groaned.

Onde walked toward Sorscha, who did her best to scream. "Don't worry, sweetheart," Onde said. "This won't hurt a bit."

* * *

The next thing Sorscha remembered was waking up on the cart to Helgen. She realized now that Alduin had indeed saved her from the headsman; she just couldn't fathom why.

"Why?" she asked Onde through the gag.

"As an amusement, I believe. Our master can be cruel."

"No, why save me at Helgen?"

"Why what? I'm sorry. With the gag, you're very hard to understand."

Sorscha wondered if Onde understood the names she called him for the next several minutes. She was terrified, afraid for her life as well as that of her husband and her friend, but she was also thoroughly pissed off.

"Now, don't be like that," Onde pleaded. "This is difficult enough as it is. You being angry with me only makes it worse."

"Fuck you."

"Onde!" Forraderi shouted from the door. "Just kill her and be done with it."

Onde turned toward the mage and raised his hands, but Forraderi was faster. He sent a barrage of light toward the priest, who flew across the room and crashed into the wall.

"You're not capable of killing the Dragonborn, and you know it, you starry-eyed fanatic. _I'll_ kill her. You go take care of the other two."

Cowed, Onde glanced at her ruefully and shambled out of the room.

Forraderi stepped in and stood before her, grinning smugly. His odor was overwhelming. It might be worth it to die just so she wouldn't have to smell him anymore.

"What's he gonna do?" she asked.

"Did you ask what he was going to do? He's going to kill them, of course. And I'm going to kill you. We should have done it sooner, but the World-Eater saw you as no more than an amusement. Who knew you would become such a force? Who knew you'd actually obtain an Elder Scroll! Impressive, but it shouldn't have gone this far."

"Why are you doing this? He's just going to kill you, too."

"Oh, for the gods' sake!" He yanked the gag out of her mouth. "What did you say?"

"I asked why you're doing this. He's the World-Eater. Do you think he won't eat you, too?"

"You know nothing, _Dovahkiin_. Time to die now." Faster than Sorscha would have thought possible, he shot a hand out and held her head still while he replaced the gag. Sorscha howled with rage. The mage raised his hands, and red light formed in them.

She had never seen the red light in any hands other than a vampire's. Brynjolf said one of them had been experimenting on vampires; it seemed Forraderi had learned their spell to drain life. She screamed again as the red light washed over her, but she started to weaken immediately.

Sorscha pushed as hard as she could with her tongue in an attempt to force the gag out of her mouth, but it was tied too tightly around her neck. She wondered if could Shout around the gag. Her head swam and strength was fading fast; if she was going to try it, she'd better do it fast.

She summoned every last bit of energy she had and focused on Forraderi's head.

"_Yol toor shul!"_

It didn't sound right, but it worked. Flames shot out of her mouth, incinerating the gag and scorching her mouth and cheeks.

Forraderi shrieked as the blaze ignited his greasy hair. He slapped at the flames, but his attempt was in vain, and his robes quickly caught fire as well. The mage flailed madly and threw himself against the wall, his skin charring, peeling and crackling.

The smell of burning flesh was worse than that of body odor, but Sorscha barely noticed. The spell and the Shout had done its work. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she faded into Oblivion.

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC


	20. Chapter 20 The Void

Searching for Memories 20

The Void

Farkas lay motionless on the floor of the cage. Brynjolf kept calling to him, pleading for him to wake up, but Farkas didn't respond. It wasn't that he _couldn't_ answer; the paralysis had already worn off. But he was playing dead.

When the priest had paralyzed him, Farkas had watched helplessly as he did the same to Sorscha and rendered her unconscious with some other spell. By the Nine, he hated magic! During the jobs for the College of Winterhold, he had learned that magic did have its uses, but he still couldn't help tensing up every time a spell was cast. He had been so small when necromancers had killed his parents and abducted him and his brother, but there were some things you just didn't forget. Nowadays, every time they encountered the zombie-raising mages, he wavered between rage and terror.

But the thralls that roamed this dungeon and did the priest and mage's bidding, weren't undead. They were very much alive and under some spell. They were victims, just as Sorscha, Brynjolf, and he were. They were still hostile, though, and Farkas wouldn't hesitate to end them if he got the opportunity because they would do the same to him. And if the priest or mage got close enough, divines help them.

He lay there now, stripped of his armor and dressed in a pair of ragged pants, waiting for them to return. He had no illusions that their captors would let them live, but he wasn't afraid. For one thing, he didn't fear death. He had cleansed his spirit of the Beast Blood, and Sovngarde awaited him. On the other hand, he had no intention of dying today. He just hoped and prayed they would come to him first. If they went to Sorscha and Bryn while Farkas was still locked up, he would be powerless to stop them.

Brynjolf took care of the cage. Farkas heard a clicking sound and moved his head ever so slightly to see what the thief was doing. While the room was empty, he was working on the lock of the cage they had thrown him in when they had taken Sorscha out. He must have taken the picks out of her hand when no one was looking. After a moment the door opened, and Brynjolf slipped out. As quickly as he could manage, he came to Farkas's cage and unlocked it, taking a moment to study his face. Farkas met his eyes and winked. Bryn smiled and crept back to his cage, where he lowered himself painfully to the floor and struggled to catch his breath. The effort to pick the locks had exhausted him.

Now they waited. The cages might be unlocked, but it wasn't yet time to make their move. Farkas would know when the time was right, and even if he didn't, Brynjolf would.

He hadn't expected to like Brynjolf. There was too much history between him and Sorscha, and they were still so close. But like Sorscha, Brynjolf never made him feel stupid. In fact, none of the thieves in the Guild did. At times, they treated him better than his family ever had. Maybe it was because they were just used to dealing with misfits. It was hard to think of himself as a misfit among the Companions, but he had to admit there were times when he had thought just that. They were his family, and he belonged with them even now, but he had always been...different. Most of the members of the Guild were different, too, each an outcast in their own way. But the Companions, even Vilkas, often acted like he was too dumb to perform all but the simplest tasks. Let alone that he was their best fighter and one of their best teachers. It usually didn't bother him, but today he found he was glad to have the master thief next to him instead of one of his shield-brothers.

After a short while, the priest entered the room, and he stood outside the two cages, arms folded, and regarded his prisoners. "It seems Nocturnal has smiled on us again, Brynjolf," he said. "Looks like he's still paralyzed; I may actually get to follow through on my promise to let you watch while I flay him alive."

Bryn chuckled. "Keep telling yourself that, Onde. You have no idea who you're dealing with."

"Oh, but you're wrong. I know exactly who I'm dealing with. Why do you think I paralyzed them both the first chance I got?"

"Aye, that does seem to be your spell of choice, doesn't it?"

"You're chatty today. Could it be that the appearance of your friends has renewed your hope? Well, don't let it settle in, because there is none." Onde went to a side table and picked up a key, then came back and inserted it into the lock of Farkas's cage. He cocked his head to the side curiously and then groaned in annoyance, evidently believing someone had left it unlocked. He only hesitated for a moment before stepping into the cage, not realizing it was the last mistake he would ever make. He knelt until he was eye to eye with Farkas and said, "I never could figure what she saw in you. You're an idiot, all brawn, no brain. She's lovely, smart, heroic—by the Eight, she's the Dragonborn! She could have had anybody she wanted, but no. She chose the dumbest brute in all of Skyrim as her mate."

When the Companions called him dumb it was one thing, but when a stranger did it, Farkas usually retaliated with violence. It wasn't really out of anger anymore; it was more because he loved a good fight and they had given him an excuse to pound on them. But he wasn't going to pound on this one. He had something quicker and cleaner in mind.

"Oh, for Nocturnal's sake," Brynjolf griped in exasperation, "if you're gonna kill us, just get it over with and stop your blasted monologing!"

"Very well."

When Onde straightened up and raised his hands to cast a spell, Farkas's hand shot out with lightning speed, grabbed the priest's ankle, and yanked his foot out from under him. Taking both ankles would have been more reliable, but he couldn't free his other hand fast enough to make it feasible. It didn't matter, though; the element of surprise was on his side, and Onde gasped in shock and bewilderment as both feet flew into the air and he crashed to the floor. Farkas was on him before he could even catch his breath, pulling him up by the hair and gripping his head tightlhy.

"How?" Onde gasped.

"What, you want _me_ to monolog now?"

"Oh, allow me," said Brynjolf. "Those paralysis spells don't last forever, you know, and if I know the Dragonborn, I'd bet that amulet he was wearing had a 'resist magic' enchantment on it. It never occurred to you that he'd be smart enough to fake paralysis, did it? You should never underestimate your opponent, Onde. Didn't you know that?"

Farkas was done with the chitchat. He put pressure on the priest's neck just in time to hear a Shout from another room.

"_Yol toor shul!"_

Shrieks rose immediately thereafter, and Bryn chuckled. "I guess she decided not to turn you inside out after all."

With Brynjolf's last words, Farkas jerked powerfully on the priest's head. With a loud _CRACK_, his neck broke and the light went out of his eyes. Farkas dropped him unceremoniously to the floor and scrambled over to Bryn's cage. "Can you walk?"

"Aye, but slowly. Go find your wife, and I'll catch up."

Farkas went to a table that held several different torture implements and picked up a dagger, then he stepped into the hall. He turned right, continuing in the direction they had been going when they'd found Brynjolf. The passage made a sharp left, and when he turned the corner he came face-to-face with a thrall, who reached out to him. Farkas seized the man's arm, wrenched it behind him and spun him around; then he drew the dagger across his throat. Blood spurted, and the thrall went limp. Farkas dropped him and headed toward a plume of smoke that was wafting out of a room down the hall.

He barely noticed the roasted mage when he entered the room, because his eyes were on Sorscha. She hung from shackles on the wall, head down, unconscious. He went to her and lifted her chin to try to wake her. Her cheeks were badly burned, and her skin was ice cold. Farkas's heart skipped a beat, and panic threatened to take over.

"No, no, no," he murmured dreadfully. He found a key in the desk and unlocked the manacles, then lowered her gently to the floor. "Sorscha? Wake up, love." He slapped her blistered cheeks, which rendered no results. Shaking her didn't do anything, either. An oppressive weight fell over his body as he realized he was too late.

No. It couldn't be. Couldn't happen. They'd had so little time together. "Gods, Sorscha, please wake up," he pleaded. "Don't leave me here alone!" Tears rolled down his face, and he cradled her lifeless body in his arms, sobbing. He had thought once before that she might be dead, and he had believed there would be no point in living if it were true. He knew now that he was right. Nothing would ever be good again, and he refused to go on without her.

A faint breeze cooled the tears on his cheek, and he froze. The breeze was coming from Sorscha. He pulled back and examined her more closely, and she still seemed dead until he placed a hand in front of her mouth and nose. She was breathing! He pressed a finger at her throat to check for a pulse. It was faint and slow, but it was there.

He laid his wife down and rushed to the shelves by the alchemy table, looking for a healing potion. _Red bottles,_ he thought to himself. _Look for the red bottles._ Unfortunately, there were several different shapes and shades of red bottles, and he didn't know which one to pick. What if he got a poison instead of a healing potion? What if there were no healing potions at all and these were _all_ poisons? Sorscha might like to tell him he wasn't as dumb as he thought he was, but at times like this, he knew she was wrong or just plain lying. Onde was right: he _was_ an idiot.

No, he could do this. He had to. "Okay, think," he said aloud. "What kind of bottles does she carry around with her? Look at them, you big oaf! Do any of them look familiar?" He studied the phials until his eyes settled on a large, orange-red bottle that was much wider at the bottom than the top. It had a label, too, and he looked carefully at the letters. "H-E-A-L. That's 'heal,' I'm sure of it. It's gotta be. Dear Kynareth, please let me be right."

He took the bottle, knelt next to Sorscha, and uncorked it; then he raised her head and rested it in his lap. "You gotta drink now, love. Do you hear me?" He opened her mouth and poured a bit of the fluid in, but it just pooled and trickled down her chin. He tried again, to no avail. "Come on, gods damn it, swallow it!" On the next attempt she swallowed reflexively, and he tried again, but more of it ran down her chin. He growled in frustration.

Brynjolf hobbled into the room and sat down next to him. "When you pour it in, close her mouth so it won't run out. She'll swallow it then."

Farkas tried again, pouring a bit of the solution in her mouth and then forcing it shut. She sputtered and gagged a bit, but she did swallow. "You're doing good, love. A little more." He repeated the process several times, and he eventually got her to take most of the potion. She still didn't wake, but her heartbeat and breathing grew stronger.

"We need to get her out of here," said Brynjolf. "Get her to a healer. That potion'll help, but not enough."

"Aye, and you, too. Any ideas?"

Brynjolf pointed to the back door. "Gotta lead somewhere. If not, we can go out the front."

Farkas looked down at his wife and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. He didn't want to leave her, not like this, but Bryn couldn't go, so it was on him. He bent and kissed Sorscha, whose breathing was close to normal now, and then turned to the thief and held the dagger out to him.

Bryn produced a similar dagger. "I picked one up from that table, too. Keep it 'til you find something better. Where are you going?"

"Darkwater Crossing. It's right there, and they know us. I'll get a horse and cart, and then we'll get you to Windhelm. _They_ know us, too."

"In the meantime I'll look around and see if I can find our gear."

Farkas shook his head. "Stay here with Sorscha. We don't know for sure if there's anybody still alive. You're weak, and you can't protect her if you pass out somewhere. I won't be gone long."

Brynjolf placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'll take care of her, my friend."

Farkas nodded, bent to kiss Sorscha's sleeping form again, and got up to head out the lab's back door. He turned left and went down yet another long hallway until he found a cavernous room adorned with dragon statues in a ring around a circular platform. The high ceiling was open and easily big enough for a dragon to come through. Was this some sort of summoning chamber for dragons? Experimenting on vampires and summoning dragons. Who in Talos's name _were_ these people? But they were dead now, so that question would probably never be answered.

A large pile of clothing and weapons rested near the door, and he found their gear amongst them. Putting on his armor would take forever so he didn't bother with it, but he did retrieve his sword and shield. The enchanted blade would serve him better than an ordinary dagger. The shield provided fire resistance, which he probably wouldn't need, but again, it was better than nothing.

The big room was a dead end, so he turned and went the other way. He passed the door where Brynjolf sat next to Sorscha and stuck his head in. "That's not the way," he said. Brynjolf chuckled weakly, and Farkas moved on. At the end of the tunnel he found a lever which opened a hidden door, and he stepped into a cave.

It was evidently some sort of residence; there were tables and chairs in the center of the room and even a shack sitting up on a second level. An inspection of the cave revealed that no one was there—no one alive, anyway. A dead dunmer lay sprawled amid a circle of candles, and at least a dozen skeletons and rotting corpses were piled in an alcove. This must be where the mage and priest put the bodies when they were done with them. The shack didn't contain anything he could use. There was a small cart next to the shack, but it was nowhere near big enough to carry Sorscha and Brynjolf. Besides, he had no idea how far inside the cave he was, or if it even opened to the outside. He still might have to go back and leave through the lair's front door.

He found a door latch, and he pulled it to find a narrow tunnel to another large area. However, he didn't see the pressure plate that spanned the tunnel. When he stepped on it, flames shot up, searing his flesh. The shield absorbed much of the damage, but it did nothing to protect his bare feet, which took the brunt of the blast. Howling in pain, he leapt off the plate and into the next room, but he didn't have time to worry about the burns because the room was full of frostbite spiders.

Dragons, vampires, falmer, necromancers—all of those, he could handle. But the big crawlies made his knees weak, his heart hammer, and his breath catch in his throat. Farkas looked up toward the heavens and said, "You hate me, don't you?"

There was no sneaking past them; they had already seen him. There were six of them converging on him, and there was nothing to do but fight. Thus, he steeled himself, pulled his sword, and engaged the first one. It snapped at him, but he was able to dodge its teeth and bury the blade in its head. The second one spit poison, and it grazed his shoulder, sending a thousand icy daggers down his arm and across his chest. He was getting tired of this shit.

Farkas snarled with rage and charged into the group of spiders, swinging madly with the sword and bashing with the shield. They were dead before any of them got the chance to attack, but he didn't even notice. Swept away by his fury, he hacked at one of the creatures until it was nothing but a mass of bloody goo. Only then did he realize he was the only one alive in the cave. He stood amongst the carnage, panting, trying to pull himself together. He couldn't afford to lose it now; Sorscha and Brynjolf were depending on him.

Thinking about his wife calmed him, and he was finally able to step out of the pile of spiders and limp to the exit, which was just up a short slope. The night air was cool and fresh, and a million stars shone overhead. Best of all, a sulfur pool lay only a few yards away. Farkas hobbled to the pool and lay down on the edge, immersing his stinging feet in the water. It was warm, but it was still soothing. He rested but made a concerted effort to keep his eyes open. He was weary, but he couldn't stay here long, and he certainly couldn't afford to fall asleep.

This had to be the worst day of his life. The night before, he and Sorscha had slept in Eldergleam Sanctuary, and he had awakened this morning content and refreshed. To say the day had gotten steadily worse was an understatement. As he looked up at the starlit sky, he tried to think if he had ever been through anything worse than this. Of course, he had. As a Companion, and traveling with the Dragonborn, he'd been in some pretty awful situations. It just seemed like the worst right now because he was still in the middle of it. Then again, of Sorscha died, it would far surpass all the others.

After too short a time, he struggled to his feet, wincing at the pain. Darkwater Crossing was about a mile away; if he ran, he could get there in a few minutes. If he walked—or rather, limped—it would take forever. Either way, every step was going to be agony. "Screw it," he muttered, and took off running.

He forced the discomfort and distress to the back of his mind. He forced _everything_ back and thought only of the task, which was getting to Darkwater Crossing as fast as possible. _Eyes on the prey, not the horizon_. _Push. Run. Breathe. Run. Eyes on the prey._ When he was younger and Skjor was training him to fight, the older Companion had talked about the void. It was a place you went in your mind where there was nothing but the battle, nothing but you're your opponent, and you moved almost without conscious thought. Farkas had never been able to slip into the void, but he did it now. The minutes ticked by and the terrain passed in a blur as he pushed himself onward, past the point of endurance and into a state where the human condition didn't apply. _Eyes on the prey, not the horizon. Run._

The sight of the little fishing village jolted him back to reality. By the time he reached the fence surrounding Annekke's small farm, he was exhausted, drenched with sweat, and his feet were bleeding; but he still ignored it all as he made his way around the house to the front porch and pounded on the door. Relief flooded through him as Annekke opened the door, but he found his legs wouldn't hold him anymore. He collapsed in the doorway.

"Verner!" she exclaimed, calling for her husband, who hurried up behind her.

"Let's get him inside," Verner said as he pulled on Farkas's arm to help him up. Farkas managed to get back to his feet, and Verner guided him to the bed.

"No time to rest," Farkas said anxiously, refusing to take any sort of comfort until this was over. "We need your help."

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC


	21. Chapter 21 Sorscha's Men

Searching for Memories 21

Sorscha's Men

_It was all a dream. Just a vivid, terrible, wonderful dream, and none of it happened. When I open my eyes, I'm going to be on my bedroll in a cave somewhere on the Aalto, but alone—no dragons, no talking word walls, no stolen memories, no vampires, no—_

_No Farkas._

_Maybe I'll just stay asleep._

As Sorscha became more aware, she realized that her face stung. Wherever she was, it was definitely not on a bedroll in a cave. She was in a comfortable bed, surrounded by the scent of woodsmoke, and someone was holding her hand.

_Sweet Lady Mara, please let it be him,_ she prayed.

"Wolf," she mumbled.

Farkas squeezed her hand. "I'm right here, love."

She opened her eyes to find herself in a big, soft bed in the center of a plush suite. Even before she looked across the room and saw Ulfric dozing in a chair by the roaring fireplace, she knew she was in the Palace of the Kings. Farkas sat on the bed next to her, feet bandaged.

"What happened?" she asked, pointing to his feet.

"You were always better at seeing traps than I was," he said sheepishly. "They're actually a lot better. Ulfric's healer is good."

"How long was I out?"

"Couple of days."

"And Bryn? Where's he?"

Farkas hooked a thumb over his shoulder, and Sorscha looked past him to see Brynjolf sprawled in a chaise, fast asleep. He was still so thin, with dark circles under his eyes, but the bruises and swelling on his face had faded and he seemed to have some of his color back.

"Lying here warm and comfy, surrounded by my men. I've never felt safer. Looks like everybody is sleeping but you."

"I slept for about a day, but I'm rested now." He caressed her cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw and brushing her lips gently. "I was so scared. I thought I'd lost you."

Sorscha reached up and kissed him, then rested her forehead against his, relishing the closeness. "I promised I wouldn't leave you again," she whispered.

"How do you feel?"

She laid her head back down on the pillow. "My face hurts. I guess I have some pretty bad scarring."

"Hodlin—he's the priest of Talos who's been caring for us—healed the worst of it, but you will have some scars."

"Maybe I'll visit that face sculptor in the Ragged Flagon. Guess what?" she said with a smile. "I remembered."

Farkas's face lit up. "Everything?"

"Everything. I saw you once before, you know."

He nodded. "In Warmaiden's."

"You remember that?"

"Of course, I do. Yours was the most beautiful face I'd ever seen. You don't forget something like that."

Ulfric raised his head and opened his eyes.

"I did know you were my father," she told him. "I figured it out when I was in my teens."

Ulfric smiled in response.

"Do you know who they were?" Farkas asked her.

"They were worshipers of Alduin."

"What?" Ulfric yelped, sitting up straight in his chair. "Why would anyone do that?"

"I asked Forraderi that very question. He didn't give me an answer."

"Did they bring him back?"

"No, he was sent forward in time by the Nords who defeated him. This is just where he showed back up. Onde and Forraderi read the signs and waited for his return. They've been serving him ever since."

"They're the ones who took your memories?"

"Aye, Onde did it. I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and they caught me and discovered I was Dragonborn. Destiny, I guess."

"You knew you were the Dragonborn before they took your memories, then?"

"Only that night. I didn't even know what it meant yet."

"What about the vampires?" said Farkas.

"I don't know."

"I can help with that," Brynjolf said sleepily. He got up from the chaise and came over to the bed, sitting on the end. "Forraderi wanted to learn their spell to drain life, and it just so happened that the cave next door was a vampire lair. Plus, with all the vampiric activity in Skyrim lately, he was able to abduct plenty more subjects for his experiments. Hodlin figures the spell, plus using your energy for your Shout, pretty much did you in."

Sorscha nodded. "That's exactly it."

Bryn shook her foot affectionately. "So what now?"

"Now she heals," Farkas declared.

"I'm healed. Now _you two_ heal. Then we go back to get our gear."

"Already done. Annekke and Verner helped us get you here, and then she went back to the lair."

"Annekke? You're joking."

"Oh, no. She was quite adamant. I think she misses adventuring."

"Did she get the scroll?"

"Aye."

"Then that's what we do next. Afraid or not, I need to finish this. When the two of you are well enough to travel, we'll take Bryn back to Riften and head for the Throat of the World. It's time to read the Elder Scroll."

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC

2


	22. Chapter 22 The Trap

Searching for Memories 22

The Trap

"You want me to do what, now?"

"You must kill Paarthurnax," said Esbern.

"I 'must'?"

"He was Alduin's right hand, and he is guilty of crimes unnumbered."

"Aye, but he has spent the last several thousand years trying to make up for that."

"Betraying Alduin doesn't make him better," Delfine declared. "It makes him worse. We can't take the chance that he won't turn on us."

Sorscha shook her head in dismay. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Throughout this whole thing, Paarthurnax is the only one who hasn't lied to me."

"But to what end? Sometimes telling the truth is the best way of deceiving someone."

"Delfine, that made no sense whatsoever."

"He wants Alduin out of the way so he can take over. Why _wouldn't_ he tell you the truth? It would only help convince you to do what he needs you to do."

"You mean like you've done?"

Esbern threw his hands up in frustration, but Delfine said, "Think of it how you wish, Dragonborn, but we must remain true to our oath. Until you kill Paarthurnax, you are not welcome here."

"Why don't _you_ kill him? You've got Blades running around all over this place." Delfine didn't answer. "That's what I thought. Well, if you and my housecarls ever get up the courage, you can find him at the peak of the Throat of the World. But be warned: I'll be there to fight with him."

Sorscha turned and left the Sky Haven Temple, with Farkas following. "At least we got the information we needed before they kicked us out." Sorscha stopped when they reached the outside and regarded her husband. He was resplendent in the blue Blades armor, but things had changed. "Are you emotionally wedded to that armor?"

"I don't understand what you mean."

"Is your heart set on wearing it? How would you feel about a new set? I'd like to give that back to the Blades."

"Sure. What'd you have in mind?"

"Well, we have all those dragon bones and scales."

A grin crossed Farkas's face. "Dragonbone armor. That would be fantastic."

"Why don't we commission it from Eorland? With current events, I don't see myself having time to make it."

As they started down the road through the Reach on their way to Whiterun. Sorscha chuckled. "Vignar's gonna just love this. Calling a dragon and trapping him on Dragonsreach's great porch."

* * *

"_Odahviing!"_

Sorscha waited with Farkas, Vignar and Olfina Gray-Mane, and a handful of guards to see if the dragon would answer her call. He was not compelled to answer, but Esbern had said dragons would hear their name from anywhere and would likely come out of pride and curiosity. At first there was nothing, only silence. Even the noise on the streets of Whiterun dropped off. Gossip traveled fast, and no doubt every citizen of the town had heard the Shout and knew what it meant. People stopped in their tracks and looked up at the sky, watching for the wyrm.

After a few minutes, a howl rang through the air, followed by the _WHOOSH_ of its enormous wings; and the immense, red-scaled dragon came into view around the east side of the porch. Odahviing dove at them, picking one of the guards up in his teeth and dropping him over the side. Sorscha lobbed arrows at him, as did the others. Even the jarl took a shot or two. The dragon made the mistake of hovering so he could breathe fire, and Sorscha tried out her new toy.

"_Joor Zah Frul!"_

Odahviing screamed in agony as the Dragonrend Shout hit him and tried to take flight, but he didn't get very far. Crippled, he crashed to the floor, knocking his head on the low, stone wall. Everyone scattered, except for Sorscha, who shot arrows and insults at him in an attempt to get him to follow her inside. "Aw, did the big, bad dragon fall down and go boom? Don't look over at them, you overgrown chicken. Come here and pick on somebody your own size!"

The dragon snarled and came after Sorscha, and she backed up under the porch's roof. "Is that the best you can do? As big as you are, and I don't even have to run to keep away from you."

Odahviing laughed when Sorscha's back hit the door, thinking he had her trapped. His laughter stopped abruptly when the yoke dropped from the ceiling and latched around his neck. He struggled, growling in frustration, until he finally realized resistance was futile, gave up and relaxed. Humbled and defeated, he sighed heavily, his body seeming to shrink. Sorscha almost felt sorry for him. "You have gone to a great deal of trouble to put me in this...humiliating position," he groaned. "What is it you want from me?"

"I think you know."

The others looked on in astonishment as Sorscha interrogated the dragon. Farkas's face remained impassive. Nothing she did shocked him anymore; this was just one more thing. That is, until Odahviing suggested flying Sorscha to Skuldafn. With that, the color drained from his face and his body tensed. Sorscha couldn't blame him; she was sure she paled as much as he did.

"And why should I trust you?"

"Because you are clever. You will see the uselessness in attempting to find another way. Skuldafn is high in the mountains. No road leads to the temple, and the rocks are too steep to climb. Only by flight can you reach the summit. If you do not believe me, go and see for yourself. I will wait here for your return. It seems I have no choice."

"Give me a minute," she told the dragon. She took Farkas's hand and pulled him away.

When she stepped out, Farengar stepped in. "I can't tell you what an honor it is to meet you, sir," he said respectfully. "I wondered if you wouldn't mind if I performed a few...tests on you."

_That is not going to turn out well,_ Sorscha thought to herself.

"There's no way I can talk you out of this, is there?" Farkas said.

"Do you have a better idea?"

"You know I don't. But can you trust him?"

That was a loaded question. _Could_ she? She wasn't sure. But _did_ she? "I believe he'll take me to Alduin. I have to trust him; there's no other choice."

Odahviing suddenly cried out in pain, a Shout and a stream of fire bursting from his maw. Farengar squealed like a little girl and ran back inside the palace with Vignar yelling at him to leave the dragon alone. Sorscha couldn't help laughing.

The humor was lost on Farkas, who sighed and nodded. Sorscha ran up the stairs to balcony, where a guard stood next to the trap trigger. "Release him."

"Are you sure about this? After all that trouble to catch him?"

"I'm sure."

"Just do it!" Vignar called from below in his gravelly, irritable voice. "The Dragonborn knows what she's doing. You _do_ know what you're doing, don't you?"

"I'll have to let you know," she replied as she came back down the stairs.

The guard opened the trap, and Odahviing turned and lumbered to the observation deck with Sorscha and Farkas following. Sorscha drew her bow, half expecting him to try to flee when he got the opportunity, but he simply stopped and waited. When they were out in the open, she turned and took Farkas's trembling hand. "Well, I never thought I'd be taking a ride on the back of a dragon," she said lightly.

"Galmar would say you're just showing off."

Sorscha took his face in her hands and placed her mouth on his, drawing strength from his kiss as he wrapped his arms around her waist protectively. They held each other for the longest time, until she finally pulled away and said, "It'll be all right."

"Do you really believe that?"

"I have to. Otherwise I'm not gonna be able to move. Take the dragon bones to Eorland and tell him you want new armor like we talked about, then go find Vilkas. Don't go home and wait for me alone."

"Okay."

"Promise me, Wolf."

"I promise. You take care of yourself."

"I love you."

"I love you."

She kissed him again and tried to step away, but he was reluctant to let go. "Wolf," she began, but he released her without further argument. Then Sorscha went to Odahviing. Using a protruding bone to get a leg up, she climbed onto his neck, tucked her knees behind his ears, and held onto his horns for dear life. Her heart hammered, and every muscle in her body seemed to lose strength; she had never been so terrified in all her life. "Don't drop me," she said apprehensively.

"You are safe with me, _Dovahkiin._ But I warn you, once you have flown the skies of _Keizal_, your envy of the dov will only increase."

Odahviing's body jerked and bucked, and then with a breathtaking gust of air, he leapt from the observation deck. Sorscha was in free fall as he dove, and she screamed; but the scream turned to whoops of joy as he turned and climbed to the sky.

"_WHOO HOO!"_ she yelled as the wind blew through her hair and the speed of flight sent a rush of euphoria through her very soul. Odahviing banked to the right and flew over Whiterun, and Sorscha looked down at a dozen faces, peering up at her in amazement. She laughed. "I think I'm going to enjoy this," she said to her new friend.

* * *

Farkas stood rooted to the spot and watched his wife fly away on Odahviing's back, his body numb and his mind a blur. It had only been a few weeks since he had thought he'd lost her, and now she was going off to fight the evil that was supposed to destroy the world—and on the back of a dragon, no less! He could barely get his head around it. There was one thing, though, that he understood all too well: it was quite possible that he would never see her again.

Vignar placed a hand on his shoulder. "She's Dragonborn. She'll be fine."

Farkas eyed the jarl silently and turned to leave the great porch without a word. He couldn't just stand there and wait for her. He had things to do. He walked through Whiterun, ignoring inquiries from townspeople about Sorscha and the dragon, and ultimately made it to Breezehome without speaking to anybody. He didn't like to talk much to start with, and certainly not about this. Not with these people. Resisting the urge to sit by the fire and wait in seclusion—probably for days, possibly forever—he went to the cupboard where they kept the bones and scales Sorscha had collected from the dragons they had killed. He filled a sack with her trophies and left the house, again braving the onslaught of curious townsfolk as he went up to the Skyforge.

Farkas had always liked Eorland Gray-Mane, maybe because he wasn't much for talking either. Eorland didn't say a word about Sorscha when he approached the grindstone where the old smith was busy sharpening an axe. "Got a lot of steel to shape," he said tersely, as he always did when somebody bothered him.

"I've got a commission," Farkas told him.

Eorland's face lit up. "Gods be praised! What do you need?"

Farkas dropped the sack of bones and scales at his feet. "Two sets of armor, one for Sorscha and one for me."

Eorland reached into the bag and pulled out a scale, a rare smile crossing his face. "They'll be works of art."

Eorland set a price, and because Farkas wasn't much for haggling, he agreed on it right away. They could afford whatever the smith asked. Exploring so many ruins had made them wealthy enough to retire whenever they wanted, although he didn't see it happening anytime soon.

Farkas turned to leave the Skyforge, only to see Vilkas running up the slope. "Did I see what I thought I saw?" his brother asked him.

"You did." Vilkas placed a hand on his shoulder and led him down to Jorrvaskr, where he found a chair, sat down, and placed his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

"Farkas, why was she on the back of a dragon?" Vilkas asked, sitting next to him.

"She's gone to fight Alduin," he said without raising his head.

"She _what_?" Vilkas got up and began pacing. "What is she thinking? She can't do that alone. Is the dragon going to help her?"

Ria came over and placed a tankard of mead on the table, then sat down next to him and placed a comforting hand on his back. He sat up and nodded his thanks, then took a long drink of the warm brew. It was sweet and heady, but it did nothing to take the chill from deep in his bones. "He said she couldn't go where Alduin was on her own, that he would need to fly her there. I don't know if he'll help her fight him."

"Do you know where they're going?" she asked.

"I think they're going to Sovngarde."

"Divines, protect her," Vilkas muttered. "What about you? Are you all right?"

With that, a strange sense of calm washed over Farkas. Of course the divines would take care of her. They had put her in the world for this very purpose. He looked up and regarded his brother. "I'm fine," he said, "and she will be, too. This is her destiny. She'll defeat Alduin, then come back home, and we'll have songs to sing and stories to tell."

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC


	23. Chapter 23 Alduin

Searching for Memories 23

Alduin

It was with great regret that Sorscha set foot on the ground outside Skuldafn Temple. Flying through the clouds over Skyrim was the most fun she'd ever had. As she adjusted her weapons and clothes and looked up at the foreboding temple before her, she found herself wanting even more to kill Alduin. He was the World-Eater. He was evil and had to be put down. But she also wanted to get it over with so she could go for another ride.

"I will await your return," said the red dragon, "or Alduin's."

"It'll be me," she assured him. She started across the bridge to the temple, no longer afraid.

The Skuldafn ruins themselves weren't really any different than the others she had been to. A few draugr deathlords, a couple of dragons, and a dragon priest stood in her way, all fairly easy kills. They were little more than obstacles in the way of the real challenge, who waited inside the swirling mass of stone, cloud, and light that lay at her feet.

So this was the portal to Sovngarde. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Sorscha had expected to have to die in order to reach the heavenly realm. Was that how it was? Would the leap into the portal kill her? And was the only way to defeat Alduin as a spirit? Well, one thing was certain: there was no way around it. "Divines, protect me," she whispered, and she jumped into the portal.

She didn't land so much as materialize. She was just suddenly _there_. Sovngarde was a beautiful place of gardens, steps, statues, and majestic waterfalls, all tinted with an otherwordly bluish cast. A look up revealed the portal she had just stepped through; swirling clouds of pink, blue, and lavender rotated around a circle of magnificent white light. Far in the distance, a heavenly choir sang a song of courage and triumph. Steps descended from the platform where she stood and led to a stone path. There was no other way to go, so Sorscha went down the steps and followed the path. She hadn't gone far when a heavy fog rolled in, obscuring her view for more than a few feet. She gathered her breath and Shouted the Clear Skies Thu'um, and the fog cleared away just in time for her to see Alduin hovering in the distance.

_Wait there,_ she thought. _I'm coming for you._ She walked toward the black dragon, who took flight again, but she ran into a Stormcloak soldier who was coming out of the thickening fog.

"Turn back, traveler. Terror waits within this mist." He said he had lost his way in the mist, where Alduin waited to devour the souls of those trying to get to the Hall of Valor.

"Follow me," she said. "I'll lead you there."

The soldier followed for a while, but when the mist gathered again, she lost him. All she could do was continue on in the hope that defeating Alduin would clear the mist so the soldier could find his way. She Shouted again and saw Alduin hovering above the path just a few yards away. She raised her bow and shot an arrow at him. He chuckled.

"So, the _Dovahkiin_ comes to Sovngarde."

"I didn't get the chance to tell you at the Throat of the World," she said, "but it was pretty cowardly having your priests kidnap and try to kill me. You let me go once because you didn't think I was worth bothering with, and then when you found out you were wrong, you flew off and had someone else do your dirty work. Very disappointing, Alduin."

The World-Eater let loose a barrage of fire, and Sorscha ducked and covered her head. When the flames stopped, she stood up, brushed herself off, and assessed the damage. Her armor offered some fire protection so she was only a little singed, but she had lost a bit of hair. Alduin was nowhere to be seen. "Guess I hit a nerve."

The mist gathered, and Sorscha Shouted again. This time she came face-to-face with Kodlak Whitemane. "I defeated my wolf, only to be lost in the mist before entering Shor's Hall," he said sadly.

"Don't lose hope yet, Harbinger. I'm here to clear the mist and stop the World-Eater."

She met others on the path, most of whom she knew, all of whom had lost hope. Courage was useless, they said. Sorscha told them all the same: "Don't lose hope. I'm here to clear the mist and stop the World-Eater." Each time she said it, her courage and resolve strengthened. She had been so scared, so unsure of what she was doing. Though she had rarely fallen into the _why me_ trap, the question had always been at the back of her mind. But now that she was here, she knew. There didn't have to be a reason. Why didn't matter. What mattered was that she was meant to do this.

The Hall of Valor came into view at the end of a bridge that appeared to be made of a whale spine. A giant stood at the gateway to the bridge. He wasn't your standard Skyrim giant, just the tallest man Sorscha had ever seen. She was tall for a woman, even by Nordic standards, but this man towered over her by more than a foot. Sorscha sensed no immediate danger, so she shouldered her bow.

"What brings you here, wayfarer grim, to wander Sovngarde?" he asked her in a thundering voice.

"I pursue Alduin, the World-Eater, and I seek entrance to the Hall of Valor."

"I am Tsun, Sovngarde's gatekeeper. By what right do you request entry?"

"By right of birth. I am Dragonborn." The words sent goosebumps down Sorscha's arms and legs. She had been Dragonborn for years now, had long since accepted it, but to say it now to Tsun gave her such a sense of honor, of pride, that it filled her heart.

"Living or dead, by Shor's decree, none may pass this perilous bridge 'til I judge them worthy by the warrior's test." With that, he drew an axe that was bigger than she was and attacked.

Sorscha leapt out of the way and drew her swords, making an effort to right herself before his next attack. When he came around again, she ducked under the gigantic Nord's swing and sliced across his midsection with first one sword and then the other. He snarled and spun around, sending the axe at her chest, and Sorscha cried out in pain as it connected. Undaunted, she waited until the weapon swung past her and lunged at her opponent, sending Dragonbane into Tsun's ribs.

He stepped back and sheathed his blade, his wound closing before her eyes, and nodded. "You fought well. You are worthy." He stood by and let her cross the bridge.

From the outside, the Hall of Valor looked pretty much like every longhouse or mead hall Sorscha had ever seen, just more resplendent. Two wings emanated from a vaulted entry hall with massive doors. Sorscha opened one of the doors and stepped inside to find a vast dining hall adorned with stone, tile, and stained glass. The sun shone in through crystalline windows that reached from floor to ceiling. Tables were spread with an abundance of food, mead flowed, and heroes roamed around congratulating each other. At one end, two warriors wrestled with the hoots of onlookers spurring them on. The song of the ever-present but unseen choir rang through the air.

She started down a magnificent staircase into the hall, but she was stopped on the steps. The regal Nord didn't introduce himself, but Sorscha knew right away who it was. She was standing toe to toe with Ysgramor himself. Sorscha gaped at the ancient hero as he greeted her.

"Welcome, Dragonborn!" he boomed. "We have welcomed none to our Hall since the World-Eater set his soul snare. Shor forbade the heroes of Sovngarde to leave the Hall of Valor to fight Alduin. That task falls to you."

Part of her wanted to be angry at Shor for preventing others from going out to fight, but Ysgramor was right; it was her mission and hers alone. "I understand."

"But it is not your mission alone," he said, as if he had read her thoughts. "Three await your word. Gormlaith the fearless, Hakon the valiant, and Felldir the old will once again loose their fury on their perilous foe." He nodded to the end of the hall, where the three warriors stood watching the exchange.

Sorscha's heart pounded. She hadn't known what to expect when she had entered Sovngarde, but she certainly hadn't planned on being honored with such renowned company. She had accomplished so much in the last few years, but when she thought about her life, she still saw herself as nothing but a thief. But these people, these valiant heroes from all time, counted her among themselves. The implications of such faith were overwhelming. How could she possibly avoid disappointing them? She approached them slowly, her knees shaking almost as badly as they had when she had approached the chopping block—what was it?—more than two years ago. But she wasn't going to her doom this time. She wouldn't die today.

The woman, an attractive blonde covered with war paint and wearing heavy, steel-plate armor, drew her sword. "At long last, Alduin's doom is now ours to seal!" Gormlaith shouted. "Just speak the word, and with glad hearts, we will hasten forth to smite the worm wherever he lurks."

Sorscha remembered Gormlaith's overenthusiasm from the Elder Scroll. It was her rashness that had gotten her killed in the first place. Fortunately, Felldir pulled her up short.

"Alduin's mist is not a simple snare; it is his shield and cloak. Only by the power of our four voices can we blast the mist and bring him to battle."

"Felldir speaks wisdom," said Hakon. "The World-Eater, coward, fears you, Dragonborn."

With Hakon's words, the tension left Sorscha's body. Had it only been a short time since she had personally called Alduin a coward? No, she wasn't just a thief. Whether she wanted to believe it or not, she belonged with these great warriors. _She_ was a great warrior. She was _Dovahkiin_, Dragonborn, and she had to stop needing to be reminded of that fact. With a battle cry, Hakon and Felldir drew swords and followed Gormlaith to the doors. Sorscha waited only long enough to gaze about the hall one more time. Such grand surroundings. Such great honor. And such a glorious battle awaiting her. She smiled, drew her bow, and joined the others at the door.

"To battle!" she roared as she threw the door open and charged through. Tsun gave a shout of encouragement as they crossed the whale-bone bridge.

The mist had worsened in the few minutes she had been inside the Hall of Valor. Alduin knew they were coming for him, and he was hiding like a frightened rabbit.

"Let us combine our Shouts to clear the mist," Felldir called through the fog.

Sorscha gathered her voice and let loose her Thu'um, which, combined with the others, thundered through the hills and meadows of Sovngarde with ear-piercing force. The mist cleared.

"_Ven Mul Riik!"_ Alduin's voice rose in the distance, and the mist returned.

"Again!" Gormlaith commanded.

"_LOK VAH KOOR!"_

Again, the resounding Shout only had a temporary effect. Alduin's Shout brought the mist back almost before it went away.

"Does his strength have no end?" Hakon lamented. "Is our struggle in vain?"

"Stand fast!" Gormlaith replied. "Once more and his might will be broken."

"I hope you're right," Sorscha muttered. It was beginning to look more and more like they were going to have to battle him blind.

Gormlaith was correct; once more and the mist cleared, and Alduin flew out of the mountains. He hovered over them and released a barrage of fire, but Sorscha and her friends stood their ground. As soon as he ran out of breath, Sorscha Shouted.

"_Joor Zah Frul!"_

Alduin howled, circled a couple of times, and crashed. The three ancient heroes charged, slicing and stabbing at him while Sorscha stood back and shot. He snapped at Gormlaith, but she dodged the dragon's teeth and swung her blade to catch the side of his face. At the same time, Sorscha sent a flaming arrow just over her head and caught him in the eye. He shrieked and took flight again, and Hakon barely missed getting crushed.

Sorscha wondered what would happen to the heroes if they were vanquished here. Technically, they were already dead. Would they just fall down and get back up again, or would their souls be consigned to nothingness? Would they even know they were killed? And did they know now what would happen to them? She already knew enough about them to know that they didn't care. All that mattered was the chance to fight Alduin one last time.

Suddenly, Alduin wasn't the only thing in the sky they had to worry about, as fireballs began raining down on them. "Gods damn it!" she cried as she danced out of the way of a blazing projectile. Nearby, Felldir ducked and covered his head as another landed near him and spewed flames in all directions.

Alduin circled clumsily, half-blinded from Sorscha's arrow. He came in and hovered, and Sorscha threw the Dragonrend Shout at him again. He howled, circled, and landed, and they went at him again. Sorscha shot arrow after flaming arrow, aiming for his good eye and the soft flesh of his underbelly. Her companions were overly enthusiastic, and she accidentally shot them a couple of times when they got in her way, but they barely took note. They just kept hacking away at the black dragon.

He snapped at them and slapped with his wings and tail, but his strength was failing, and panic started to set in. His strikes grew more frantic, and when he tried to take flight again, he stumbled and skidded across the meadow, with Gormlaith, Hakon and Felldir going after him.

This was it. Sorscha knew it. One more shot, and he would be dead. He knew it, too. He peered back at her with an expression of terrible hatred and no small amount of fear. "Good-bye, Alduin," she said, and took the shot.

The ancient heroes backed away as the World-Eater seized up and screamed in agony, rage and denial. "_ZU'U UNSLAAD! ZU'U NIS OBLAAN_!" _I am eternal. I cannot die._

But his words were unconvincing as his body began to crumble. Dozens of shards set fire and broke away like a snake's skin, leaving what appeared to be another layer underneath. What was left of Alduin screamed one last time before turning in on itself and then bursting in a tremendous blast of flame and light. When the explosion died down, nothing was left of the World-Eater, not even ash.

And it was over. Just like that.

Sorscha dropped her bow to her side and looked mutely at the spot where Alduin had crouched before her only a minute before. After the screams, the blasts, the wind, and the shouts of her comrades, the ensuing silence was deafening. Even the choirs had stopped singing. After a moment, she turned to her companions, who stood next to Tsun.

"All hail the Dragonborn!" they shouted, punching their fists in the air. "Hail her with great praise!"

"You have done a mighty deed," Tsun said. "They will sing of this battle in Shor's hall forever. But your fate lies elsewhere. When you have completed your count of days, I may welcome you with glad friendship and bid you to join the blessed feasting."

But Sorscha knew better. This was the only time she would see Sovngarde. "It would be the greatest honor, Tsun, but I'm bound to Nocturnal."

The towering gatekeeper smiled at her. "Aye, but who wields more power? Your daedric prince or Shor himself? Have hope, Dragonborn. When your days on Nirn end, we may yet meet again. Return now to the living with this rich boon from Shor, a Shout to bring a hero from Sovngarde in your hour of need." With that, he Shouted at her, and she blacked out.

* * *

Sorscha became aware of the cold first, and then of the fact that at least twenty dragons were flying around her head. None of them menaced her; instead, they shouted greetings and praise at her. She looked around and found Paarthurnax, who sat in his favorite place on the word wall.

"You have done well, _Dovahkiin._ You have averted the end of this world, and as you said, the next world will have to take care of itself. Not all of my brethren will turn to the Way of the Voice, but it is my hope that in time, your world will come to no longer fear the dov. Farewell, Dragonborn."

Paarthurnax flew away, and Odahviing landed next to her. "You have proven yourself worthy, _Dovahkiin_, and I offer myself to you as your loyal servant. Whenever you have need of me, call my name, and I will come if I can."

"Thank you for your help, Odahviing. But I don't need a servant. I'd much rather call you my friend."

"It would be my honor. Now, if you will permit me, I will take you back to your home."

Sorscha laughed. This dragon was actually asking permission to fly with her again! "Do you know what, Odahviing?" she said as she climbed onto his neck. "Someday, years from now, I am going to call on you, but not to aid me in battle. I'm going to ask you to give my children a ride."

The red dragon laughed. Sorscha whooped with elation as he leapt for the sky.

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC

5


	24. Chapter 24 Epilogue

Searching for Memories 24

Epilogue

When Odahviing set Sorscha down on the great porch, she said her goodbyes, spoke to Vignar and Olfina as briefly as she could and headed for Jorrvaskr. Farkas met her halfway down Dragonsreach's steps, and she threw herself in his arms and covered his face with kisses. She noticed Vilkas running up behind him.

"Vilkas was worried," Farkas said.

"Weren't you?"

Her husband shook his head. "I was at first, but then I realized everything was gonna be all right. And it is."

"Next time you decide to go for a ride on the back of a dragon," Vilkas said when he arrived at her side, "could you warn us about it ahead of time?"

"I'm sorry, brother; it was kind of spur-of-the-moment."

"Well, I want to hear all about it."

"I promise to give you all the details later," she said, touching her forehead to Farkas's. "For now, I want this one in my bed."

Vilkas chuckled uncomfortably. "All right, then. I'll leave you to it."

Sorscha took Farkas's hand, and they walked back through Whiterun. It wasn't an easy trip; everyone they passed stopped them and asked about her unusual departure and her fight with Alduin. She put them off as politely as possible, but it still took much too long to get home. When they got into the house, she didn't even bother to go upstairs; she just started kissing him and taking his clothes off.

"Glad to see me?" he asked with a chuckle.

"Oh, yes. But there's more. Wolf, I have never felt so alive! I feel invincible, like there's nothing I can't do. I know it's just euphoria over all I've done in the last few days, but I want to enjoy it while it's here. And I want to share it with you."

"Then let's not waste any time."

* * *

Deep in the night, as they lay together in the dark, her back to him and his arms around her, she told him about the flight with Odahviing, the battle with Alduin, and Sovngarde.

"It was the most beautiful place I've ever seen," she said, "at least after the mist cleared. But I had to fight my way into the Hall of Valor."

"Because you were alive?"

"No, apparently, _everybody_ has to. One last test of worthiness. But oh, it was worth it. To fight with the heroes of old, to meet Ysgramor—there are no words! I saw Kodlak—oh, and remember Svaknir, that bard in Dead Man's Respite? I met him, too, and King Olaf One-Eye."

"You're joking! What was that like?"

"He was looking forward to meeting Svaknir and calling him friend. It's so different there, Wolf. It's just like all the tales and legends we heard as children. I didn't have much hope of seeing it again, but Tsun—the gatekeeper—implied that Shor might get me out of my deal with Nocturnal so I could spend eternity there. It gave me a lot of hope."

"I don't think forever in Sovngarde would be as good without you there."

"Well, I'm going to do everything I can to get there. I'm not going back to the Thieves' Guild."

"What about Brynjolf?"

"No, wait, let me rephrase. I still want to see them, but I'm not going to steal for them anymore. Hopefully they'll understand."

"Bryn will. I don't know about the others. What now?"

Sorscha snuggled back against Farkas. "You mean assuming I ever want to leave this room? We could retire, you know."

"Do you really want to do that?" he asked dubiously.

"No way!"

"Oh, thank the gods!"

Sorscha laughed. "Well, the dragons aren't going to go away just because Alduin is dead, so I would imagine we'll still be hunting them. I also want to go to the sanctuary and see the Dark Brotherhood. I'm not going to work for them, either, but I miss them. I was so close to a couple of them, and it was hard after I left. Astrid made a gesture, and I want to accept it. We still have the Companions, and I've been thinking about the Dawnguard, too. Their fort isn't too far from Riften. What do you think about looking into joining them?"

"They're the ones who hunt vampires, right?"

"Mh-hmm."

"I think it's a good idea."

"You want to hear something hilarious? My best friend throughout my teen years was a three-hundred-year-old vampire who looked like a ten-year-old."

"She might not look too kindly on you joining the Dawnguard."

"Nah, I would never hurt her, or allow her to be hurt, and she knows it. Besides, Babette can take care of herself. There is one very important thing I want to do before I do any of that, though."

Farkas snickered. "We did that all afternoon!"

Sorscha giggled and turned around to kiss him. "Okay, something _else_. Interested in a trip to The Reach?"

* * *

Sorscha walked into the Sky Haven Temple carrying a large sack containing the Blades armor she had borrowed. Farkas carried the two Blades katanas. Esbern noticed them and hurried across the hall toward them.

"Dragonborn, thank Akatosh you're all right! Delphine was very worried about you. You should go and see her."

Sorscha nodded and went to find Delphine. She found her in the dormitory, sitting at a table with a book. Lydia sat nearby, also reading.

When Delphine saw Sorscha, her face lit up. She stood and approached her, arms out, but Sorscha stepped back. "I heard you left Dragonsreach on the back of a dragon," the Blade said, "and I didn't know what to think."

"He took me to Sovngarde, where I defeated Alduin."

"Thank the divines," she said softly.

"Now. About Paarthurnax."

"Does he live?"

"He does."

Delphine crossed her arms. "I'm sorry, Dragonborn, but I believe I made myself clear. You are not welcome here until he is dead."

Sorscha smiled and dropped the armor with a loud clank, and Delphine had to step out of the way to avoid the heavy sack landing on her foot. Farkas dropped the swords next to the sack. "I believe those belong to you," said Sorscha. "I'm keeping Dragonbane; it's my right as Dragonborn. But we won't be needing the rest of it."

She turned to Lydia, who had stood and come over. "I'm sorry it had to come to this."

Tears welled in Lydia's eyes, and reached out for Sorscha and hugged her. "You will always be my dear friend," she whispered. She pulled back, took Farkas's hand and squeezed it, then left the room.

"Dragonborn, please understand"—Delphine began.

Sorscha put a hand up. "You made your choice, and I've made mine. Don't try to make it better now."

"I guess this is goodbye, then."

Sorscha nodded and turned away.

The sun was just setting as she and Farkas exited the Sky Haven Temple. She looked up and watched the sky darken and the stars begin to appear; it was going to be a lovely, clear night. Normally, it would be a good night for travel, but they were in The Reach. The Forsworn awaited them, and with the setting sun, so did the vampires. They would probably have to fight all the way to Whiterun.

Sorscha chuckled. She couldn't wait.

* * *

Characters and settings c. 2011 Bethesda Softworks LLC

* * *

_If you liked _Searching for Memories_, please give me a review. Also, be sure to check out _An Orphan's Tale,_ also on this account._


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